Bird of Prey
by lotrfreak007
Summary: One of the most renown journalists in Gotham comes back from a year long hiatus. While gone, the Dark Knight is discovered, and an insane criminal is released from Arkham. The only person Batman can trust is a reporter who has all the secrets...
1. Charity

**I'll dabble a bit in the Batman fandom. Review and give me your opinions! Thanks.**

**Title:** Bird of Prey  
**Rating:** T for now  
**Summary:** One of the most renown journalists in Gotham comes back from a year long hiatus. While gone, a Dark Knight is discovered, and an insane criminal is released from Arkham Asylum. The only person Batman can trust is the reporter who has all the secrets...  
**This is AU in the comic book world, but takes place one year after Batman Begins.

* * *

**

**Chapter One**

**Charity**

A gathering for the rich and famous wasn't my ideal way to spend an evening, but I tried to make the most of it. A fundraiser event was planned at 9:00 pm, and if the socialites attending had anything to do with it, the party would continue all night long. This meant I was being forced to wear painful stilettos, a risqué dress that stopped just shy of my thighs, and an up-do hairstyle pulled tightly and neatly towards the center of my head, causing a migraine to form.

I wasn't a happy person.

But despite the celebrities and famous icons of Gotham City, this event was for a good cause. It was a charity performance, raising money for the reconstruction of the East End of Gotham City. Because crime and vandalism had destroyed most of the East End, citizens united together in order to repair damages caused to homes and local businesses.

But the socialites present at the event had no clue as to what was happening outside of their own worlds. They had never experienced poverty, larceny or the murder that existed in the East End. They were protected in their fancy homes with top-notch security systems and customized Ferraris. The only possible explanation of their arrival to the fundraiser was to have their name plastered on the front page of the _Gotham Gazette_. Well, that, and it was the social event of the season.

The _Gotham Gazette_: I couldn't understand why this year, and for the past ten years, my company would host such a party. It, to me, was a ridiculous social gathering that only included the elite of Gotham City. Unfortunately, as a journalist for the _Gotham Gazette_, I was obligated to attend.

I entered into the elaborate ballroom where the party was hosted.

The first outrageous and unreasonable thing I came across was the grand staircase that led to the ballroom. It was made out of limestone marble. Based on the size of the staircase, I concluded that the money used to construct it was a sum too large for me to fathom.

My quick strides led me to the bottom of the staircase and eventually to the crowd of people mingling and socializing.

This I hated doing this more than anything else—being just like the people that surrounded me. I had learned over the years to immerse myself into the smiling facades of the privileged of society. So, displaying a fake smile and a weak laugh I grabbed the nearest glass of champagne.

Conversations grew between the people: they discussed latest fashion, economy, their acquaintances, businesses, and of course, money. I continued to smile and nod my head to any current conversation at hand.

"Excuse me, ma'am," a polite persona that I concluded to be phony announced behind me, "You wouldn't happen to be Helena Bertinelli?"

I turned to face the man. He was in his fifties and dressed to perfection. His head was slightly balding, but that didn't dishearten the young woman latched to his side. He seemed to have an air of dominance, of controlling power floating about him. His cold, gray stare read, "I know that I'm better and more important than you, but I'm trying not to show it." I smiled, stifling a laugh at the man's apparent cockiness.

"Why, yes, I am Helena," I replied to him, sticking out my hand to shake. "And you might be…"

"Benjamin Hawks," he retorted. Instead of shaking my hand as I expected him to, he gently held the back of my palm up to his lips. _He's a kiss-ass_.

"Well, Mr. Hawks, what do I owe this pleasure?" Benjamin didn't release my hand. Instead, he brushed aside the woman latched onto him and began to walk, leading me away from the crowd.

"You, Ms. Bertinelli, are one of the most renown journalists in Gotham. Am I being too modest in saying so?"

"Not modest enough, I'm afraid. The only difference between the other journalists of Gotham and myself is that I don't fabricate stories. I make no false assumptions in my articles, and I do my best to offer the truth in everything I write. The _Gotham Gazette_ isn't corrupt unlike some of our competitors in the media today, especially in this city."

"That seems to be quite a large difference involving you and other journalists. Perhaps that is what makes you and your writing…so unique."

"Perhaps, Mr. Hawks."

"And am I correct in assuming that you were on a temporary hiatus for nearly a year?"

I slipped my hand out of his, becoming slightly uncomfortable by this stranger's interest in me. "Yes, I was. I took some personal time off from work."

"It was a pity. The _Gotham Gazette_ could have used you during the time that the Batman first appeared."

I stopped walking. He stopped only a few steps ahead of me and turned. "What do you mean, Mr. Hawks?"

"That was when you were gone, wasn't it? When the Batman first arrived in Gotham?" He smiled. "You are an excellent journalist, Ms. Bertinelli. And, from your previous work, an excellent investigator?" he questioned.

I hesitated. Why was he asking me such strange questions? "I'm sure, sir, that there is a point to your questioning?"

Benjamin continued to smile. He walked up to me and placed his hands on my shoulders. "Have a wonderful evening, Ms. Bertinelli." With that said, the strange man walked back towards the large crowd and to his female companion. She seemed somewhat relieved that Benjamin had returned to her.

"What in the world…" I whispered to myself.

Taking a sip of my champagne, I strolled around the large ballroom, watching as people conversed and laughed with one another.

That is when I saw my boss: the senior editor of the _Gotham Gazette_, Ricky Hudson and his wife Carol. I strolled over to them, careful not to bump into anyone or spill the expensive champagne on their even _more_ expensive clothes.

"Ricky! Carol!" I quickly gave the latter a large hug. "Thank God you're here. I was going crazy without you."

Carol smiled, pulling back from the embrace. "Well, I'm glad to see that I'm wanted. I almost didn't come but Ricky convinced me otherwise. Now that I'm here, I _still_ wish I were at home. No offense to you."

"None taken, Carol." I turned to Ricky. "Have you decided who will write the article on this magnificent event?" I asked sarcastically.

"Helena, you already know that you'll get the job. You'll interview someone and write about how they have contributed to Gotham City. But it's not just someone—it's the man who donated the most to the charity."

"Rather than listing all the socialites on the front cover who attended?"

"That's right."

"I can't stand the rich and sophisticated elderly. They think they're so high and mighty."

"Bertinelli, there aren't any old people here."

"I mean…anyone over the age of fifty," I replied, sarcastically.

"Well then, I suppose it's a good thing I'm only 47 and not rich."

"Not sophisticated, either, but I suppose so." Helena paused to sip her champagne before continuing. "I'm slightly confused about the topic, though. What do you mean 'how they have contributed to Gotham City?'"

"Anything that they have done to improve the city's conditions, help people, etc."

"Hmm…" I gathered. "That's an interesting way to approach the article."

"Well," Ricky smiled, "I figured you would approve of it."

"Not that you need my approval." We both smiled, although mine seemed to resemble annoyance. I was going to be stuck with a snob for what could be hours, discussing their cars, homes, yachts, and who knows what else. "So, who's the lucky tycoon?" I asked derisively, surveying the room.

"Uh…" he paused, looking at Carol. "I haven't exactly seen him here…yet."

I sighed, rolling me neck to relieve the tension. "Great. How am I supposed to interview the jerk if he's not even here?"

"Helena, I didn't say he wasn't here, I just said that I haven't seen him yet."

"Well," I stated, somewhat peeved, "if you see Mr. No-Show, can you inform him that there is a very impatient journalist waiting to interview his sorry little butt so he can get the recognition from the public that he so desperately does _not_ need?" I tilted my head to the side, waiting for a response from Ricky.

"Ricky!" I heard from behind me. His eyes instantly went past mine to distinguish a gentleman not but a few feet away from the three of us. "There you are. I've been looking everywhere in here for you."

"You had me worried, there," the stuck out his hand for Ricky to shake. "I was beginning to believe you wouldn't show."

"Of course I'd show. I owe you one, especially after that big fiasco…" his eyes landed on me, "…that never needs to be repeated again."

The two shared a brief laugh. "Good."

He stuck out his hand (which seemed to be a customary trait for him) towards me. I shook it, knowing that the next few moments were going to be extremely awkward. He was the interviewee. "You must be the journalist—excuse me—the impatient journalist waiting for my sorry little butt."

I closed my eyes, sighing. "You heard that," I said, barely above a whisper.

"I did…but everything you said was completely understandable."

"Oh…not only did you hear that, but you heard _everything_. Great." I wobbled my head, smiling in disbelief. "I'm Helena Bertinelli."

"I'm Mr. No-Show…but you can call me Bruce Wayne."

* * *

**Please Review!**


	2. Formalities

**Chapter Two**

**Formalities

* * *

**

"I'm really, _really_ sorry…" I rambled on. Bruce just shook his head and smiled.

"It's okay, I promise. I get that all the time." He turned towards Ricky once again. "My associate is around here somewhere—Lucius Fox."

Ricky smiled after racking his brain, searching through memories to recall the person. "I remember that name. Helena, you interviewed him about three years ago. Do you recall?"

"Of course, I do," I replied. "Wayne Enterprises was a little more lax during that time and it was easy to sneak my way in through the back doors. Granted, I could never get away with that now, being that Mr. Wayne has come back from the dead."

"Well, a trustworthy reporter in Gotham City is always allowed through the front door. It's just that finding one would seem to be a difficult task."

"You have yet to find a truly honest reporter?" I questioned, mockingly. "I'm offended by that statement, Mr. Wayne. Why, just a few moments ago an older gentleman claimed that I was one of the most renowned journalists in Gotham. But I suppose I deserved your remark for my earlier comments."

He just smiled at me, not rudely or sardonically, but genuinely, as if he were truly enjoying the banter between the two of us. "Well, Ms. Bertinelli, I suppose we're even. But, unfortunately, I'll have to depart from you fine people and go…socialize with other guests." He looked at Ricky. "Tell me when you want to do the interview, okay?"

"Um…wait, Bruce," Ricky caught him before he left. "Bertinelli here will be doing the article."

Bruce glanced at me. "Right. It must have slipped my mind. If you find Mr. Fox, tell him that I need to speak with him immediately. Not that it's urgent—just important." He winked and smiled proudly at the cluster of people that had formed.

* * *

I sat down at the bar, watching all the gathered people. The music had grown quite redundant as I listened to the orchestra playing subtly in the background. Slightly louder was the murmur of dozens of people, discussing many of the same topics as before: shallow conversations that only delved to the subjects of business and economics. And _this_ was supposedly 'the life'. 

But the eye of one man caught my attention. Upon that instance, I recalled nearly four times when I looked up to find him staring intently at me before quickly glancing away. Sipping my champagne, I continued to gaze at him, wishing nothing more than to burn a hole into his head.

A man stood next to me, ordering a drink. "Red wine, please. Thank you, sir." The roughness of his voice, the nearly perfect dialect, and the pure tone—it all seemed so familiar to me. Glimpsing at him, I noticed immediately who it was.

"Lucius Fox."

His eyes found mine and looked confused, but realization suddenly dawned on him. "Bertinelli: the reporter from a few years back," a small laugh escaped his lips. "I remember you, all right."

"Well, not much has changed. Look at you—you are exactly the same."

"Yeah, the same goes for you. Although I don't really know why you, of all people, are _here_."

"Anything for a story," I chuckled. I shook my head in amazement. "You dress up nice, Mr. Fox."

"As do you, Ms. Bertinelli. But, allow me to be frank—I hate stuff like this." He took a seat next to me.

"I agree. It all seems so shallow." Another sip from my champagne, and I continued the conversation. "How are things at Wayne Enterprises? Do they still have you working in inventory?"

He laughed. "No, no…ever since Bruce returned, I'm doing much more professional business work. But it's _very_ boring, I must say. I'm just glad that Mr. Wayne is back to control the company."

I nodded my head, looking around at the crowd—and there it was, for the fifth time in a row. The man was staring at me once again. "Mr. Fox, how much do you know of Benjamin Hawks?"

"Not much, and please, call me Lucius."

"As long as you call me Helena. So…nothing at all?"

He shook his head. "No, ma'am. I've just heard his name in passing: a conversation here and there. Mr. Wayne might have done business with him in the past, but I'm not certain. You might want to check with him."

"Speaking of which," I added. "He's been searching for you. He needs to discuss an important manner with you of some sort."

"Well, if he needs me, I'm sure he'll find me. I'm catching up with an old friend that I haven't seen in three years or so. Besides, you're the only familiar face I've seen around here that's not," he whispered, "halfway intoxicated. But that might not be too far off, the way you're drinking that champagne."

I smirked at him and then gulped down the remaining portion of my drink. "It's a good thing that I have a designated driver…and _no_ desire to get drunk whatsoever."

Lucius began to stare at me, realization setting in on what I had just said. I knew someone here was going to bring up the topic; I just didn't know by whom. It always seemed awkward and uncomfortable when people delved into my personal life. I could see it in his face—the way he tried to be subtle, nice, and gentle. "What happened? You were gone for an entire year. Where'd you go?"

I sighed knowing that sooner or later, the question would be asked. I just wished that it had just been later. "I needed time to…get away. I explored parts of France, England, Spain, and my father's hometown in Italy. It was…refreshing and very nice to get out of the country. Seeing different places, getting out of Gotham…really helped."

"I'm sorry if it seems I crossed over any boundaries."

I immediately shook my head. "No, no, no…it's fine. I've moved on. I'm starting to get back into the swing of things: daily routines that I had forgotten, work, right down to the 30 minute jog I used to take in the mornings. It's all coming back to me." I fidgeted nervously in my seat.

"Do you still think about them?"

Sighing, I thought about my response. Do I still think about them? Of course I do. They were my family. "Everyday. Every morning when I wake up and every night before I go to bed. I've moved on, though. There's no use crying over spilt milk."

"Mourning and grieving helps. People would think you were insane if you didn't."

"I have mourned. I have grieved…in my own way."

"During random trips to Europe?" Before I could respond, Lucius' name was called from behind us. We turned to see Bruce Wayne walking in our direction.

"I've been looking for you. We need to discuss…" He glanced at me. "Hello Ms. Bertinelli. I didn't mean to interrupt."

"It's okay," I replied feeling extremely awkward as I squirmed in my seat. It wasn't a conversation I liked to have. "We weren't discussing anything important." Lucius locked his eyes with mine, and possessed a sense of understanding. It wasn't something I wanted him to discuss with anyone, and he would be sympathetic to my unspoken wishes. "And you can call me Helena. Being formal is not my forte." My stomach began to feel queasy and in the past five minutes, I had become ill tempered.

"Okay…well, while you're here, do you mind me asking when we're going to do this interview?" He chuckled. "I don't have a lot of time on my hands right at the moment."

I stood up from the table and smiled mockingly. "I'll call you in the morning…that is, if you're awake. We'll schedule something then." I began to walk away.

"Wait," he called after me. "Where are you going? The party's not over."

"It is for me, Mr. Wayne. I have a lot of work to do at the office, so I'm heading straight over there. Enjoy the rest of your night." I began to walk towards the entrance doors.

"Lucius," I heard Bruce say, "you've never had a lot of luck with women, have you?"

* * *

I walked into my secluded office, still dressed elaborately from the party. I attempted to save myself, fortunately, from a massive migraine by undoing my hair. The enormous amount of hairspray I used suddenly seemed like a bad idea: my hair was still stuck in its position on top of my head, and without a brush, the task of saving myself would be difficult. 

I decided to ignore the stiffness of my hair and moved toward my computer. Signing on to the Internet, I checked my email. There was one message in my inbox from a cousin that I visited in Italy. Fortunately for me, it was written in English (I could barely speak an ounce of Italian).

**Helena,**

**It has been only two months since I have seen you, and already I miss you (Sorry if my English is broken). I have been doing the research you have asked of me, and I have found something of interest. My scanner is not working so I cannot get it to you yet, but I will send it as soon as I can. Please visit back in Italy anytime.**

**Love,**

**Marcello**

It was 2:35 in the morning. The charity event was sure to be a huge hit, so people wouldn't leave for a few more hours. Ricky would call soon, telling me of the details that occurred after my departure. I would stay at my office until workers started to enter the building, typing up everything that happened.

It was a sort of ritual I had every year—except for last year, of course. So, checking the clock once more, I began typing my summary.

I'll call Mr. Wayne in the morning.

* * *

Thanks to all the reviewers from my first chapter! I hope I was able to reply to everyone (my memory is bad). If not, I'll definitely do it this time around. :) Review please!


	3. Punctual

Sorry for the delay on this chapter! I hope you enjoy it, though.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

**Punctual**

After a few hours, the quiet humming of my computer slowly lulled me into a deep sleep. My head was resting on my keyboard, my nose pressing gently on the letter "N". I suppose I was more tired than I had originally thought. Before drifting off into a nap, I had written down all the important details of the charity event from a little earlier.

A knock on my office door woke me with a start. The keyboard had left an impression on my face; it began to grow more and more red. "Uh, come in," I said drowsily. Looking at my clock, I noticed the time—12:45 p.m. I should have gone home hours ago.

Ricky walked in. "Bertinelli, are you stupid or something? You didn't go home, did you?" His arms were crossed in front of his chest and he leaned against the open door.

"I had planned on it. But that didn't really work out." He finally took recognition of my face and what the keyboard had done to me while I was asleep.

"Out of all the places to sleep in here, you decided to use your keyboard as a pillow. You have one of the best offices on this floor, next to mine, of course. There's a couch in here, along with two very comfortable chairs. Not to mention you have your own house to sleep in."

"I had a lot of stuff I needed to get done." He pushed himself off the door and walked behind my desk, looking at my computer.

"Really? Like typing 87 pages of nothing but N's?"

"Shut up," I mumbled. Ricky chuckled to himself and began to exit my office, but stopped before he reached the door.

"I had this crazy notion that you were actually going home last night. You know: to clean yourself up. You also said that you'd call Bruce Wayne in the morning. It's now 12:47. Instead, he's decided to call my office half a dozen times in the past hour alone. I couldn't keep blowing him off, so he's coming in to speak with you personally. He's a very punctual guy: when he says he's going to be here at 1:30, it means he's going to be here at 1:00. That's just how he is. If I were you, I'd clean myself up a bit. And do something with that hair—it looks like it's been glued down in a matted…mess."

"Ricky, I really don't understand how your wife puts up with you." He grinned before exiting my office.

"Clean up…use the restroom sink if you have to. I'm sure you have spare clothes around here somewhere…hell—you're still in your dress." He shook his head and closed the door behind him, returning to his own office.

I sighed, rubbing my eyes and slouching in my chair. There was a compartment in my desk used specifically as my "clothes drawer". I even labeled it with a Post-It note. Inside I had a pair of black pants, blue jeans, a green blouse and a red hoodie. If Bruce Wayne was coming in to my office, then I'd definitely need to dress in my office attire. I quickly grabbed the blouse and black pants, running toward the restroom.

Precisely 20 minutes later, I had exited with my hair slicked back into a ponytail, dress in hand, fresh clothes on, and newly applied makeup. I was "decent", as Ricky would put it.

Opening the door to my office, I gasped in surprise. Inside Ricky and Bruce Wayne were seated in my chairs, looking somewhat amused.

"_You_ were supposed to call." It was all I could do not to turn away in embarrassment. I smiled a somewhat gaping smile and shook my head.

"I'm sorry about that. It was—I had—something came up."

"Yes, of course. Sleeping can sometimes inconvenience things."

Ricky patted the arms of the chair, raising his eyebrows. Quickly he got up and sighed. "Well, I'll let you two have at it. There's no need for a third party." He exited my office, closing the door behind him, not once looking at me. He knew what he was receive if he did: the death glare. It was either that, or a slap to the head.

I sat down on my computer chair and quickly began busying myself around the desk. Papers needed stacking, a pencil needed sharpening, and things needed to be locked away in the desk drawers. "So…Mr. Wayne."

"Ms. Bertinelli."

"How did you enjoy your night?"

He stretched back in his chair. "It went over quite well. I met a lot of interesting people. It was just unfortunate that you had to leave early from the festivities."

I chortled. "Well, like I said earlier: sometimes, things just come up." My nerves finally calmed down to where I was able to act normal once again. I was no longer fidgeting at my desk. "So…interesting people, you say?"

"Yes: one man by the name of Benjamin Hawks. He seemed to take a keen interest in my actions." Quickly I shot a glance at him and before he could continue on his monologue, I interrupted.

"Benjamin…Benjamin Hawks? An older man, balding, with a woman latched onto his side?"

Bruce gave me a puzzling look. "Yes…you met him?"

"Let's just say you aren't the _only_ one he took a keen interest in. He's quite an odd man—very intelligent when it comes to people and socialites—but very odd, indeed. I only met him last night and already he seemed to know so much about me."

"Such as?"

"Well, for example…last year I left the company for a while to travel. I went to Europe, specifically Italy. I didn't tell anyone but my boss. But even then, Ricky wouldn't have said a word to anyone about it…Now that I think about what he said, it's not that odd. After all, Lucius Fox asked about the same thing last night."

"You _are_ a rather well known reporter. Someone like you doesn't just disappear from the spotlight unnoticed."

"Sort of like you, right Mr. Wayne? I recall that people thought you were dead for quite a while."

"Well, that's true. What were you doing in Europe?"

I gazed at him, narrowing my eyes. He was keeping the focus on me. It was compelling. "I was traveling. And you? What were you doing all those years?"

He paused, smiling at me. "Traveling."

"I see." There was an uneasy silence between the two of us. I was reading him while at the same time, he was reading me. But I refused to let myself be unnerved by this man.

"So…any good stories you've been working on?"

"Yes, actually." I pulled a file under a stack of papers. "This one seems to be taking an interesting twist. The citizens and police are calling this guy the "Joker". Apparently he's become quite popular: seven homicides where he has left his calling card, four burglaries, and two assaults. Ricky doesn't want me to delve any deeper into it, though."

"Really? Why not?"

"He says 'even for me, it's too dangerous'. This guy has a lot of connections to the crime rings in Gotham. And, like you said, I'm in the spotlight…just as you are. You have to be careful what you say, write, or print. Word spreads like wildfire around here."

He laughed. "That's true. Not to change the subject, but I'm on a strict schedule today."

Gasping, I answered, "Sorry about that. It's so easy to get sidetracked. Um…the interview." While pulling out my planner, I yawned deeply.

"You didn't go home last night, did you?"

"No," I replied, shaking my head. "I stayed here, working." There was a pause in our conversation. "What day are you available?"

"Any day this week, perhaps later in the afternoon. That way, I'm not at Wayne Enterprises working, and I can…get home before it's too late."

"How's Friday—say…7:00 p.m.?"

"We can grab dinner if you want."

This caught me by surprise. Was he perhaps asking me out on a date? "That sounds…reasonable," I hesitated. "But it's strictly a business meaning."

"Of course," he laughed. "What'd you think it was? A date?" I smiled at him, unblinking. I couldn't read this guy, no matter how hard I tried. "Just don't expect me to pay for your meal. Even though I'm rich, it doesn't mean you can take advantage of me."

I wasn't smiling anymore. He had just insulted me without even realizing it. "Mr. Wayne, it might be best if you leave soon. Your ego is too big for my office."

He stopped smiling as well. "Bertinelli, it was a joke—I didn't mean anything by it. I'll pay for it, my treat."

"No, thank you, _Wayne_. May I suggest McDonald's? I might not be able afford anything else."

He sighed and paused for a moment. Anything he said would only anger me further. "I didn't mean to say that you couldn't afford anything."

"You instigated it, and that's enough to set me off. You don't know the first thing about me, Bruce."

"So we're on a first name basis, now? Fine, Helena…why don't you tell me about yourself."

This conversation wasn't where I wanted it to go. If this were a year ago, Bruce Wayne would be sprawled out on the floor with a bloody lip and black eye. I wouldn't hesitate for a moment to attack this guy. Perhaps that's just a basic example of how things have changed for me over time. I've learned patience and how to control my anger. But having the richest man in Gotham insult me in my office wasn't helping matters.

"Friday, 7:00. Pick me up from my office."

"So, you _don't_ want to talk about yourself, then."

"You said you were on a strict schedule."

"Strict, but flexible."

"That's a total contradiction."

The smile appeared again. I was still aggravated. "It'll be fine if I'm late for a few minutes. Besides, it's my company. I can show up for work whenever I want."

"Of course, you can."

"And for some reason, I get the distinct feeling that you're not a fan of people who are…"

"Are what?" I folded my arms across my chest.

"Let's just say…who are well off." He imitated me, folding his arms across his chest and slouching in his chair.

"You mean rich people. People like you?"

"Something like that."

"You know, insulting me twice in one day isn't the wisest thing in the world to accomplish."

"I'm not trying to insult you. I'm trying to make conversation."

"That, or psychoanalyze me. What are you trying to get out of this? Some deeper meaning—understanding? If that's the case, then believe me: there's nothing under the surface that hasn't already been exposed."

"I seriously doubt that. We all have our secrets."

"Including you."

"Especially me." Bruce sat up straight. "I'm just trying to figure out, as of right now, why I'm getting the cold shoulder from you."

I was tired. Extremely tired. And it wasn't necessarily from the lack of sleep. There was only so much one could take from Bruce Wayne. "Is there anything in particular that I need to bring or wear on Friday?"

He leaned back. "A nice gown and yourself, of course. We won't be going to McDonald's, I assure you. Oh, and bring anything else you'll need for the interview, I suppose."

"I'm pretty sure I can manage that," I replied sarcastically. "Good day, Mr. Wayne."

"Kicking me out already? That's fine." Bruce stood up. "Good day, _Helena_."

With that, he walked out of my office, shutting the door behind him. I rubbed my eyes and sighed deeply, ready to pull out my hair. I opened my email, checking for any replies or messages. There were none, so I decided to email back to Marcello.

**Marcello,**

**Thanks for the email. Whenever you can get your scanner to work is fine. I appreciate the work you've put into this. Here's a name I'd like to throw out there: Benjamin Hawks. See if you can find anything for me. I've heard the name a few times here and there, and last night at a social gathering, he even approached me. I'd appreciate it.**

**And I'd love to visit you again soon: maybe a few months from now. Say hello to the family for me.**

**Love always,**

**Helena**

**

* * *

**

Everyone should review because they love me...and I have nothing better to look forward to. :) Sorry if there are any mistakes that I didn't catch. I'm really sleepy.

BTW, if you didn't catch who was staring at her in the last chapter, it was Benjamin Hawks. Sorry once again if I didn't make it that clear.

One final note: for those of you who are not familiar with the comic books. Helena Bertinelli is an actual character. If you really want to know what happened, you can just go on Wikipedia or something and look it up...or you can keep reading! wink wink


	4. Dedication

Yay for another chapter! Thanks for all the reviews! I'm so sleepy, so let me know if there are any mistakes. I'll fix 'em ASAP. Woo for Batman's 1st appearance...tee hee!

* * *

**Chapter Four**

**Dedication**

_Friday 4:30 P.M._

Detective Jim Gordon stood outside of a club on the East End of Gotham City. Yellow tape was squared off outside of the entrance while flashing lights illuminated the smoggy street. Quickly, he slipped on latex gloves and stepped underneath the tape. A flock of people stood on the opposite side of the street, some standing on tiptoes to get a glance of the scene. Jim rubbed his mustache, took a deep breath, and waited.

"43 year old male by the name of Daniel Ashman—no criminal record. CSU places time of death around 12 hours ago. Rigor mortis has already begun to set in." A fellow police officer approached Gordon, trying hard to keep up with his quick pace.

"Wait. 12 hours ago? It's the middle of the day, and no one cared to take notice of a dead guy outside of a club?"

"Don't forget, Detective. We're on the East End of Gotham. The people here are as dirty as the streets, and that's saying something."

"Right…cause of death?"

"Four entry wounds to the back of the head and two exit wounds in the front."

"Where have I seen _that_ before?" Gordon asked sarcastically.

"It seems to be a reoccurring theme with this guy. As well as this," the officer pulled out a clear plastic bag. Inside was a playing card.

The detective sighed. "The Joker."

"Bingo. You got to thank the corrupt government officials of Gotham for this one. They're the creeps who let this guy out of the crazy-bin."

"Hopefully we'll catch him before he does any more damage to this city."

"You need to watch out, too, Gordon. The people ain't happy. Captain might be bringing in the big guns after this murder."

"FBI? They won't let us near this case." The officer shrugged his shoulders and walked away. Jim examined the crime scene: Daniel Ashman lied face down on the concrete, blood pooling around his head. CSU was dusting for prints on Ashman's wallet found a few yards in front of his body. He was an average sized man in good health with a full head of brown hair. For all Jim knew, Daniel Ashman could have been a family man going for walk—wrong place, wrong time. It was an ill-fated circumstance, like most of the events in Gotham City.

"Nice to see you, Detective." Jim looked around to his left, then his right and saw no one talking to him or even paying attention to him. Jim knew exactly who it was.

"Batman? If only I could say the same for you."

"It's best if no one else sees me right now, so be careful. Walk around the body and to your right." Jim followed his instructions and stopped in front of an alley. There he was: the Batman.

"You might want to clear out soon. The FBI's coming."

"So I heard. Is it the Joker?"

"Yeah. But I doubt that we'll get to investigate any further. Once the FBI's involved, they're going to knock us out of the way. The Captain's already got me under surveillance. He knows I've been collaborating with you privately. I won't be of any help in your personal investigation…nor will the police. You might have to go alone on this one."

"I wouldn't even know where to start."

"Arkham Asylum, for one. The Joker was there for a few years before getting out, thanks to our _wonderful_ court system."

"As Batman, I can't just walk in and get information. Fear isn't going to play my hand this time around."

"Either you'll have to get involved personally…or someone else will."

"You already mentioned that you couldn't help me." Suddenly, Jim Gordon's name was called, perhaps by a fellow detective. He looked back in the direction it came from.

"I got to go before they get suspicious. Good luck finding someone." Upon looking back at Batman, Jim Gordon noticed that he went missing. The dark knight slipped away once again, unnoticed. "You'll need all the help you can get."

* * *

_Friday 7:30 P.M._

For the second time this week, I was wearing a red gown with my hair tightly secured in an up-do. The only difference is that this experience was turning out to be much more ridiculous than the charity event. I waited at my desk in my office, staring at the phone while occasionally checking my email. I kept wondering whether or not I missed something—a note, message, call—_anything_. Ricky had said that Bruce Wayne was a punctual man, so being a half-hour late for something as important as this was outrageous.

There was a knock on my door. Quickly, I straightened myself up, fixed my dress, hair, and any little necessity I deemed important. "Come in," I said, ever so patiently. The door opened to reveal Ricky. I sighed, slouching, just slightly, once again.

"Still no show?" he asked.

"Nothing. Not even a phone call—should I be worried?"

"It's _Bruce Wayne_, Helena. He's got more protection than the president." I looked at him incredulously. "Okay, maybe not the _president_, but you get the point."

I glanced at my inbox on my computer: it still read 'No New Messages'. "Maybe he thinks he's just too important, so he forgot to call."

"Look…I know you two don't get along that well, but trust me: Bruce ain't like that. Something must have come up—I'm sure of it. Don't look too much into things. No one needs you getting all worked up about it. _Especially_ me."

"I'm disappointed, that's all." There was a pause between the two of us, and I knew that Ricky was trying to build up the courage to say something.

"You know the Joker?" I stared at him. "I mean…well, of course you know him, but I'm just trying to change the conversation to what I need to talk to you about."

"Why don't you just say what you gotta say?" I looked at the pile of documents sitting on my desk. A tab stuck out of one, reading 'Joker'.

"Police suspect that he murdered again—Daniel Ashman. Did you know him?"

I rubbed my hands against my face. These questions were getting quite old. I heard so many of them, especially since I returned to Gotham City. It was even more astonishing since they were all coming from my boss. "No, Ricky. I didn't know him."

"I'm sorry, but you know I had to ask." _No…you didn't. You always think you do, but you **don't**._

"I understand. I just get tired of it." Ricky walked over to my desk. He lifted one of the files, revealing one that I had pulled out previously for Bruce Wayne. "What are you doing?"

"Sorry—I saw that you had the Joker research, and I was just wondering…"

"Whether I had continued said research? When you knowingly told me not to further my investigations?"

He scrunched his face in frustration. "I'm looking out for you! If I recall, your cousin Marcello specifically told me to do just that. The Joker is still on the loose…"

Abruptly, I stood up, my face turning almost as red as my dress. "You think I'm that naïve and that I don't _know_?" I snatched the file from him. "Why else would I be doing all of this? Risking my neck!"

"For revenge?"

"For _justice_!" I threw the file on my desk, papers spilling out and falling on the floor. At that point in time, I didn't pay any head to my obsessive-compulsive tendencies. I let the papers lie where they may and would reorganize them later. I felt so much pent up anger boiling inside, ready to spill over. It was only a matter of time before I blew my top.

"Helena…you have to face the facts. The police may never catch this guy."

"They had him…they _had_ him! And they let him go. Now more people are dead because of their dense actions."

"Well what if he didn't kill your family?" I stopped. It was the first time he had brought up the subject of my kin since I returned from Italy. I worked for Ricky three years before my family's murder, and a few months after. He talked to me about seeking professional help to deal with the depression, the belligerence, and the anger. But I couldn't do it. My pride wouldn't let me, and was ultimately my downfall. I quit my job, packed my belongings and moved to my cousin's home in Italy. Marcello is my last surviving relative.

Tears began to build up—not from sadness, but from anger and pure exhaustion. "You don't really believe that…do you?"

"I don't know, Helena. I really don't."

"It was him. That laugh…that evil, _malicious_, cold laughing. I can still hear it, Ricky. Every night before I go to bed and every morning when I wake up…it's in my head all the time. I couldn't escape it in Italy and I can't escape it now." I looked into his eyes, pleading with my own. "It won't stop."

He was being stubborn-a quality that I admired in him. It wasn't easy for Ricky to give in. "What would it take for it to stop?"

"Faith…and trust from you that I'll do the right thing. I can get him and you know it. I don't care if I'm doing it alone or not. I have to catch the Joker."

"Leave the gung-ho attitude up to Batman, Helena. I'm being flexible so you can research here, got it?" Ricky's hard exterior went right back on. He circled around my desk and picked up the scattered papers before returning to his original position. "But anything you find is reported to the police, you hear? And I mean a-ny-thing. I'm looking out for you on this one."

Excitement rushed through me. I smiled genuinely for the first time in such a long time—not out of embarrassment or anything, but out of pure joy. What I have wanted to do ever since I returned from Italy was finally going to happen. Suddenly I rushed over to Ricky and embraced him. "Thank you, Ricky. _Thank you_."

There was a knock on my office door, which was conveniently opened. Ricky pulled out of the hug and looked at the doorway. Standing there was a somewhat discomfited Bruce Wayne. He was dressed in a black tuxedo, ready, apparently, to take me to dinner. The three of us stood in an awkward silence until Ricky scratched his throat.

"Well…Bruce, Helena…I'm going home. See you on Monday, Helena." Ricky walked past Bruce and smiled gauchely, leaving the office. I smiled as well, not caring what Bruce would say or do.

"I'm sorry."

"Why is it that neither of us can ever keep our appointments?"

He scratched his head, looking rather ashamed. "Okay, I'm _really_ sorry. We can still go to dinner…"

"It's fine, Bruce. The reservation has probably been cancelled by now. I'm not that hungry, anyway. Have a seat," I pointed to the chair in front of my desk. He walked over and sat down rather swiftly and nervously. "Are…you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Everything's cool. I just got a lot to do and think about."

"Wayne Enterprises?"

"What?" He asked quickly. "Oh…yeah…yeah." He slouched back in the seat. "I hope I didn't interrupt anything between you and Ricky."

"_No_, it was fine. I just got a little overexcited, that's all."

"About what?"

I sighed. "He's letting me continue my research…on the Joker."

He narrowed his eyes. It seemed as though Bruce was concentrating very hard—on what, I don't know. His hand brushed against his chin. "Uh…is that what you want to do? It could be dangerous, you know."

I scoffed and shook my head. "I know, Bruce. Thanks for the concern."

"Do you want to tell me why you're doing it?"

I raised my eyebrows. "Doing what?"

"Dedicating all your time and effort towards this guy."

I stopped breathing for a split second, glancing down at the file spread out on my desk. "Bruce, how about we do this interview?" I pulled out a tape recorder from my desk drawer.

"You really don't want to talk about it?"

I snickered. "Not in your wildest dreams. I'm going to go change out of this _very_ uncomfortable dress. I'll be back in a sec."

I left the room, also leaving Bruce alone with his thoughts. He had the strongest urge to grab my file on the Joker and leave, but something was holding him back. Perhaps it was the fact that he was concentrating rather hard on whether or not he should do something unknown to me.

Little did I know, I would be dragged into a series of events uncontrollable to me. I could help him somehow with the knowledge I possessed, the skills I had. But presently, I continued smiling as I walked down the hall of offices and entered the restroom.

* * *

So I think everyone should review and make me happy, because today wasn't the greatest day in the world...:( Headaches are no fun! 


	5. Interviews

It's 3:00 AM. I'm tired. Good thing it's spring break. I'll reply to the previous reviews later...I'm just so tired.

But please review, anyway!

* * *

**Chapter Five**

**Interviews**

_Friday 8:15 P.M._

Later that evening, I returned to my office, dressed casually (and comfortably) only to find Bruce Wayne, fidgeting in his seat. He seemed extremely nervous about something, but was trying his hardest to keep it discreet. His attempts were worthless…I could see right through his façade. But I was never the type of person to deliberately embarrass someone, so I let him continue his acts of eccentricity without uttering a word. Unfortunately for me, my efforts to interview him were shoved to the side. He claimed to receive an important phone call during my departure from Wayne Enterprises, and he had to leave immediately. Perhaps that would explain his edginess.

"Is it really that urgent?" I asked him, pleadingly.

"Helena, I am extremely sorry, but I have to go. It seems as though there's an emergency in one of the labs that they want me to report to right away. If I could, I'd stay, but you know how things are…" For some reason, I didn't believe him. I could have sworn he was lying to me, and perhaps he was.

"Technically, I _don't_ know how things are…I've never gotten the chance to interview you about it," I crossed my arms while raising an eyebrow to him.

"Soon, I promise. I know you're irritated with me—"

"Whether you know it or not, Bruce, I'm capable of having even the smallest inkling of patience. I know you're a busy man. Just remember that I'm also a busy woman. I can't just reschedule you whenever you want. Call me when you're available, and I'll see what we can do."

He stuck out his hand for me to shake, something I found compelling at the time. I received it warmly, though, and smiled graciously. "You have no idea how much I appreciate this. Don't let me forget that I still owe you dinner."

I chuckled. "Go on…get out of here." He looked at me fleetingly for a moment and left my office. I watched him shut the door run down the hallway through my glass windows.

Sighing, I sat down at the desk. My dossier was sitting there open and ready for me to research the Joker even further. It seemed as though it had a mind of it's own, dragging me towards it, tempting me to begin my investigation. It howled in excitement for me to commence my exploration of answers and inquiries.

Without hesitating any further, I pulled one of the papers out with a list of phone numbers. One name and number stuck out to me: Dr. E. Thompson, a psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum who was fired for inappropriate behavior. If anyone in the medical profession were to help me, it would be him. I quickly picked up the phone and dialed his number. It began to ring and continued three or four times before someone answered.

"_Dr. Thompson._"

"Yes, hello. My name is Helena Bertinelli. I'm a reporter with the _Gotham Gazette_. How are you today, sir?"

"_Fine, thank you. What can I do for you, Ms. Bertinelli?_"

"Well, sir," I stated, hanging up the receiver after putting it on speakerphone so I could take notes, "I'm doing some personal research, and I was wondering if you would be kind enough to divulge some information."

"_I guess it depends on what you want to know. I've heard your name before—read your articles. You're not that bad of a writer._"

I laughed. "Thank you, Dr. Thompson."

"_What do you need info on?_"

Sighing, the name quickly flowed from my mouth. "The Joker."

The other end of the line was silent for a time. I could hear him breath in shortly before he began to speak. "_You've put me into a sticky situation. He was a client of mine, and that's where the rules of patient confidentiality apply._"

I nodded to no one in particular. "I understand if you can't disclose anything with me."

"_You didn't let me finish. Those rules only affected me when I worked for Arkham Asylum. They fired me, as I'm sure you know, and also my practicing license was taken from me. The rules of patient confidentiality are no longer relevant._" I nearly fell out of my seat when he said this. "_You won't find a birth certificate, social security number, license—anything. Not even his real name. He did have an alias, though: Jack Napier. It's the only name he would disclose to the workers at Arkham._" I quickly jotted down the name.

"Any documents under Jack Napier?"

"_That I don't know. You might want to discuss it with the police._"

"One crucial question that I have: do you think he was insane?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line. It was apparent that Dr. Thompson was thinking long and hard about this question. "_No…no, I don't think he was insane. I believe that he was in Arkham simply to avoid the death penalty._"

"So…he knew what he was doing when he killed all those people."

"_Yeah. He did it for the pure fun and pleasure of it. Great guy, huh? It may just be my opinion but even if he is insane, he still deserves the death penalty._"

I raised my eyebrows. "I can't blame you for thinking that."

"_He never really liked talking about his murders._"

"Was he ashamed?"

"_I don't know. I guess that's what makes it so disturbing. His first murder was in plain sight: middle of the day amongst a crowd of people. Every murder afterwards was at night with no witnesses. If you ask me, he is either afraid of getting caught, ashamed, or he doesn't have a conscious. If that is the case, then he truly is insane._"

I wrote down the notes as fast as possible. He was a fast talker. "Does he have a psychological profile?"

"_That's usually developed by criminal profilers. But while working at Arkham, I tried to pick out consistencies with his murders. Needless to say, I didn't expect him to get out anytime soon. But since I lost my license, I refused to turn any of my information over to the police. I'd be more than glad to email it to you._" At that point, he grabbed a pen and a piece of paper while I gave him my email address.

"Dr. Thompson, I really appreciate you taking time to discuss this with me."

"_No problem, Ms. Bertinelli. I hope I was of some help to your cause. Take care._" With that, we both hung up our phones. I tried organizing my thoughts of what just transpired. Thompson was convinced that the Joker was sane. Considering the time frame the Joker's murders were committed, they were pre-meditated. He put thought and preparation into each one, individually. It sent my blood boiling.

I looked down at the list of phone numbers and crossed out Dr. Thompson's name. Next up: Detective Jim Gordon.

* * *

_Friday 9:45 P.M._

Jim just hung up his phone before walking out onto his porch. He had a long day, wrapping up any last minute details on the Daniel Ashman case before the FBI stormed through the yellow tape, forcing everyone to leave. Including the police. Just a few moments ago, a young woman by the name of Helena Bertinelli called, asking about the Joker. He had seen her before—at the charity event. Although he didn't talk to her, or anyone besides his commissioner and those in the police department, he _had_ read her articles before…both those she had written and the ones written about her. She was a diligent reporter and wouldn't take no for an answer. And it seemed as though she was already connected to the mysterious serial killer.

For the past hour, she drilled him with questions regarding the Joker: who he was, if Jim had met him, talked with him or was associated with him, the criminal's past, his tendencies, if the police had developed a psychological profile, and so on. Gordon gave her as many answers as he could before hanging up.

It had been a long, _long_ day.

He pulled a cigar out of his shirt pocket and contemplated lighting it. It would calm down his nerves, at least. Reaching into another pocket, he retrieved his lighter.

"I didn't take you as a smoker." Looking to his left, Batman stood at the corner of Jim's porch, leaning against a post.

"Old habits die hard," Jim replied, putting the lighter back in his pocket. "I'm no longer working on the Ashman case, or any other case involving the Joker, if you didn't hear."

"I heard. The FBI really knows how to get in the way."

"It's just as well. The GCPD hit a dead end with this one. There's nothing else we could have done."

"I can't give up on it, Jim."

"Then you've decided?"

The Batman paused. "Helena Bertinelli—smart, passionate about what she does…a good canvasser. It seems as though she already has a personal vendetta against this guy." A smile crept up on Gordon's face as he slowly shook his head. Eventually, it turned into a deep cackle.

"Well…you'll never guess who gave me a call, asking about the FBI's involvement with the case. I'll give you a hint: she's a good canvasser."

Batman scrunched his eyebrows before a smirk suddenly twitched on his face as well. "She's already hassling you?"

"Just now, she called me asking questions about the Joker. Batman, she's got a head start on it. If I were to recommend anyone as a researcher, it'd be her. Hell, I don't even know her and I'd still suggest her."

"Good to know, Jim. You should get some rest—you like halfway dead." Batman began to turn around, ready to exit Gordon's property before the Detective stopped him.

"How do you plan to get her to help you? I seriously doubt Helena's the type of girl to do whatever some stranger in a mask tells her."

Batman contemplated the answer. He didn't know Helena enough—_especially_ as someone parading around in a costume. He could instill fear in her, but like Gordon said, she wasn't the type of girl to be afraid of him. He looked at Jim and shook his head, not knowing the answer to his question…at least not yet.

"Mind if I give you some advice?" Gordon offered. Batman remained silent, offering the Detective to continue. "She might be willing to help you as long as you help her in return. 50/50. I can think of one thing she'd want more than anything else. Justice."

"And what justice could I offer her?"

"Do you even know the real reason why she's doing this?" He shook his head. "Bertinelli's convinced that the Joker killed her family a while back: every last one of them, save for a cousin in Italy somewhere. She's Italian, so of course her family was large: 32 of them killed, all in the same night and place. There just wasn't any proof to pin the Joker down. He didn't leave his calling card—the manner in which they were killed was completely different from his other murders. If you want this girl to help you…you need to find out who did it and why. Otherwise, she's no use to you."

In a flash, the sound of a whipping cape was heard. Jim glanced to his left and the dark knight was gone. Gordon had grown so used to his sudden disappearances that they no longer fazed him. "Screw it." Without another moment's hesitation, he pulled out his lighter and began smoking his cigar.

* * *

_Friday 11:45 P.M._

My boss normally considered me obstinate or insane. I was never really intimidated by him, so that's generally why he left me alone. There were some days when I stayed at my office until the break of dawn, working on cases that had been completed long ago. Being a perfectionist was something that I never could prevent. It was a part of me that I dreamt would lead me to my greatest achievement. Or, as Ricky always said, "Would kill me because I'm too damn stubborn."

Regardless of his constant warnings and criticisms, I put in all-nighters at the office on a regular basis. Last month, I finally got the courage to purchase a couch and sit it next to my desk, just in case if I ever needed to take a catnap while working. When Ricky found out, he about blew his top off. I just smiled and laughed. Never really understanding why he always got upset when I stayed the night, last week I had an epiphany. While I was at work, laboring on my articles, I was getting paid _overtime_. I received my paycheck at the beginning of this week and screamed. Literally.

So, with some my extra cash, I bought an alarm clock to keep in my office. Just in case if I did catch a few 'z' s, at least I could wake up for work on time.

I received Dr. Thompson's email and decided to print it out and place it in my research file. The printer in my office was temporarily out of order, thanks to some empty ink cartridges (I supposed the remainder of my overtime pay would have to cover that). I walked out of my office and, with a spare key, entered Ricky's. Sitting at his desk, I logged in and began to print my email before something caught my attention. I looked on his desk to see a cassette. There was a label on it, but was blank. I scrunched my eyebrows, not recalling a time when Ricky recorded an interview. It was so unlike him not to label it, if that were the case.

The email quickly printed out and I walked back into my office trying my hardest not to let my thoughts linger on the tape. Absentmindedly, I shut the door behind me, studying my email message. I shivered at the coldness of my room while reading.

I shivered. I don't shiver in _my _office. My window was open. I didn't recall opening my window. Slowly, I looked up to see Batman standing in front of my desk.

It was all I could do not to scream.

* * *

Sorry for the cliffhanger. Once again, I'm tired. Sorry for any mistakes. Review please so I can be all...happy and stuff! 


	6. Convincing

**_IMPORTANT_**: is having major issues with my computer at home. It will no longer allow me to import my chapters to the website, but luckily, I HAVE found a loophole...I think. I'm not quite sure what's wrong, but when trying to report it to support. I get error pages and the like. If the alerts don't work, I'm deeply sorry. But this is the only way I know how to update. Anyways, here's the next chapter!

It's a short one with lots of dialogue…enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter Six**

**Convincing**

Hastily standing, I knocked over my office chair, scooting back towards the wall. My mouth was gaping. But the man in front of me—the animal—didn't budge an inch. He stood there staring back at me, almost in a sardonic manner. His eyes narrowed as he watched me flail about, nearly knocking my computer over in my tirade. My breath quickened and my heartbeat was out of control. He remained silent.

"Wh-wh—whaa…" I stammered, loosing control of my voice, as well. "What do…do you want?"

"You're help," he replied, not budging an inch. How was that even possible?

"W—with what?" I questioned. My voice was still shaking. I cleared my throat, hoping it would help matters some.

He finally moved towards my desk, looking down the entire time. "With what?" I repeated, this time braver.

"From what I hear, you're a good investigator."

"And I su—suppose that gives you cause to b-break into my office."

"The window was unlocked."

"I'm on the 14th floor…" He didn't reply. Yet he continued to stare at the same exact spot, drilling a hole into it. Batman was concentrating intently on what to say next. I glanced towards my phone. It wasn't cordless, but I might have been able to call the police. It was a fleeting chance—one that wouldn't last long. Quickly, I grabbed the phone. "I'm calling the police…" I mumbled. Batman cocked his head and looked at me, holding the end of a cord: one that hooked to the phone and the wall.

"One step ahead of you." I dropped the dead phone immediately, staring at the man in black. It clanged on the side of my desk, continually beating against the cold metal. "I need you're help."

"So you've mentioned." I gulped. "How is it possible that _I_ could help _you_?"

He uttered only two words that made my heart stop for an instant. "The Joker."

I sucked in air slowly before I responded. "And?"

"By the looks of it, you've already got a head start." He grabbed a file, holding it loosely in his hand. It was almost as if he were taunting me with it, waving it back and forth. I didn't answer him. Instead, he continued. "This is something I can't do by myself. I need help, but not just from anyone—from you."

Relaxing a bit, I realized something: he wasn't there to scare me or intimidate me. He wanted my help…genuinely. My muscles relaxed, somewhat, and my heart rate began to steady out. There wasn't anything to be afraid of…except for the fact that he climbed through a window 14 floors up.

"Why me?"

"Because…you want this guy dead as much as I do. Passion is what drives you and motivates you. Not fear. Fear limits people's potential. That, and you have an authentic reason to go after this creep. And if you're not helping me…I'm certain you'll just get in my way."

"How do you know I won't call the police once you leave?"

"It's a chance I'm willing to take. The question is: are you willing to help?" I looked into his piercing eyes. They were pleading, almost begging me to help him. They were speaking words the dark figure in front of me could not. _I'm at the end of the road…and I don't know where to turn for help. I need you. Please._

Contemplating the decision, I reflected on something Ricky had said earlier. _Leave the gung-ho attitude up to Batman. _I grinned, but only for a split second. Slowly, I nodded in accordance with Batman. He seemed satisfied and relieved with my decision.

"You're not afraid of anything…are you?" He squinted his eyes. I could have bet money that he was smirking.

"Everyone's afraid of something. Even you." He decided not to respond. "What's in it for me?"

"Excuse me?"

"Yeah, you'll capture the Joker. But even that's a long shot. It'll take months…could be years."

"You'll be doing the research regardless if we're working together."

Looking down at my feet, I thought intently. What would I want, more than anything else? My toes wiggled as countless thoughts went through my mind. My head snapped up as I stared at Batman. "I want to look into his eyes."

"What?"

"When you get him, before you kill him, if that's what you decide to do…I want to look into his eyes to show him that he made a mistake. Throughout all the murders he committed, I want him to know that he screwed up."

Curiosity struck him rather quickly. "How?"

"You want me to assist you? To help you?"

"Yes…I do."

I continued to stare at him unblinking. "Then I'll do it. Come into my office, after hours so no one will suspect anything. Come whenever you think it's necessary. I'll be here."

"You won't go home?"

"If you know where my office is, then you can certainly figure out where my home is. If I'm not here, then you'll know where I'm at." I sat down at my desk, stacking certain papers and shuffling through others, preparing to lend Batman some information. The email from Thompson lay next to my keyboard.

"You never answered my question."

"What question?"

"How did he screw up?"

"He had no idea I was even in Gotham City, let alone with my family. It was a party for my father. I suppose he thought I was out of town." Deciding to end the conversation, I took the file from Batman's grasp. Although my hands were still shaking, I no longer felt afraid of him. The fear had subsided, replaced with a sense of purpose. There was work that needed to be done. I opened the dossier, flipping through random pages. "His name's Jack Napier…at least that's what I think. Technically he doesn't have a name. It's just an alias."

"I thought Joker was his alias."

"Sure…" I trailed off, concentrating on the pages and my shaking hands. "I contacted Detective Jim Gordon earlier today. Perhaps you know him?"

"We've met," Batman smirked.

"Really?" I replied sarcastically. "Wouldn't have guessed that."

"What did you learn from him that I don't already know?"

"The kind of ammunition he uses." My eyes questioned him as I wondered if he already knew about the information. He remained silent. I pulled out a paper that had been scribbled on earlier. "Armor piercing rounds. They are extremely difficult to get a hold of in Gotham City. Many police officers have been killed, thanks to the criminals that use them. With the growing number of petitions out there, the ammunition is basically outlawed."

"By petitions?"

"That, and it's too much of a liability. The local government doesn't need a poorer reputation than it already has."

"True. What else?"

"The specific rounds are for an M60…a machine gun, in case you didn't know. That's also something you don't come by in an everyday gun shop around here."

"Okay, so he's not getting his supplies in Gotham."

"I didn't say that."

"So, what—you're assuming its black market?"

"Maybe. I only got this information a few hours ago. Give me some time to process it and think about it before we jump to conclusions."

He nodded his head, something I found odd. The man didn't move much as it was. "Okay…anything else?"

"I just got an email from Dr. E. Thompson, a former psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum. He did a psychological profile on the Joker when he was a resident there. I haven't thoroughly read it, but I skimmed through a portion of the email. It seems as though the Joker has certain obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Have you noticed anything in his crime scenes that are strikingly similar to his other scenes?"

"I'll have to get back to you on that one," he sighed. "I haven't been to all of them."

"Okay," I replied, leaning back in my chair. It was after midnight, and I hadn't been home in quite a long time. "I need to get home and clean up, take a shower…and _try_ to get some sleep. That, or I won't be able to get any work done. My boss will kill me." I ran my fingers through my hair. "Take this with you." I handed him my dossier. "I've read it at least a dozen times. It'll do you more good than me."

He nodded his head once again, which made me smile. But as soon as the smile came, it left. Realization dawned on me: I was sitting at my desk with _Batman_ standing in front of me…my shaking hands caught my attention once again. Although considering the circumstances, being this calm wasn't in the least bit like me—or at least the _old_ me. The old me would have screamed and ran out of the building at first glance. Yet here I was, having a conversation with Batman, of all people.

"Are you certain you'll be dedicated enough to help me?" Batman questioned.

Rubbing a hand across my face, I responded, "I'm not doing this to help you. I'm doing it to help me. I'll never be able to stop going after him. And you won't be able to stop, either. We might as well work together in the process."

"United we stand, divided we fall."

I raised my eyebrows. "What's that from?"

"Figure it out. Keep the window unlocked from now on." And within a single moment, he fled from my office and through the window. I couldn't help but stand up and run over to the glass, looking below. Unfortunately, he was already out of my sight.

* * *

So, I don't know how I feel about this chapter…it seems like it was just flung together. Let me know what you think! I might just redo it, though. Review, if you please!


	7. Visitors

**Chapter Seven**

**Visitors**

_Saturday 8:00 A.M._

"I swear to God, Bertinelli, if you didn't go home last night, I'm going to kill you," Ricky screamed, opening the door to my office. People just outside the door stopped in their tracks, wondering why their boss was yelling. Upon realizing I was the cause, they shrugged their shoulders and proceeded to work on their tasks at hand.

"Calm down," I stated slowly, looking up at the man whose blood was boiling. "I went home." He looked at me incredulously. Holding up a hand to my heart, I chuckled, "I promise, Ricky. I went home, took a shower, ate a hot meal, and went to bed. You can check the video surveillance in the parking lot if you don't believe me. I got in my car and drove away."

"What time?" he asked suspiciously.

Scoffing, I replied, "Oh, what does it matter?"

"Save me the trouble of looking at the tapes, will you? And you know I would."

"Around…one."

"One? One o'clock? In the A.M.?" He exhaled noisily, looking up at the ceiling as his hand ran across his face. "It's eight o'clock right now. Which means you had approximately seven hours to get home, take a shower, cook some food, eat the food, get some sleep, and then come back to work. If my calculations are correct—and they always are, mind you—that means you got about three hours of sleep."

"Two, but good guess, considering your _calculations_ are always far from correct.." He almost began to hit his head against the doorframe. "Look, Ricky…I'm going to admit it: I'm not normal. I don't function like a normal person."

"And now you know why you worry me so much? You just blatantly admitted to being weird."

"I know! You make think it's odd, but I really don't need that much sleep at night. It's not about how much sleep you get, it's about when you get it. You sleep in cycles of—."

"I really don't care about your _cycles_, Helena, or your psycho mumbo-jumbo babble. I have a wife of my own, thank you."

"Then what's the problem?" Crossing my arms across my chest, I raised an eyebrow at him. My lip tugged and I wanted so hard to laugh, but I had to keep my composure. This is what Ricky and I did on a normal basis. It surprised a lot of people how I have survived this long in the company without being fired.

He shook his head in defeat. "FYI: you missed your chance at a cover article with Bruce Wayne. We're going to go ahead and run the story on that dog. You know: the one that jumped—."

"Through a window to save that old lady. You'd think that the _Gotham Gazette_ would have more interesting things to write about. But that's fine…about the cover article, not the dog. Although that dog must have been pretty strong to jump through a window that high." Immediately I thought of Batman coming through my window. But as soon as the thought entered my mind, it left. There was no reason for Ricky to ever know about his appearance in my office the previous night. "It's kind of odd. But like I said, it's fine."

"You sure?" he asked, slightly puzzled. Pushing himself off the doorframe, he walked closer to my desk, eyeballing me. "Don't let this private investigation get in the way of your obligations. Before you know it, this thing will take over your career and your life."

"It is just one cover article…how many have I had? Dozens. Don't worry. It'll be okay."

"Sure it will." He began to walk out of my office.

"Ricky!" I shouted before he could go too far. He came back, peeking through the entrance. "Thanks…you know, for caring and stuff."

He grinned, but only for a split second. "Don't get sentimental on me, Bertinelli. I have a reputation to uphold."

* * *

_Saturday 7:00 P.M._

**Dear Helena,**

**I bought a new scanner. I'm sorry that it has taken me so long…as of right now, money is hard to come by. It's a picture and article taken from a local newspaper. Your father was a rather large character in Italy. His death was not taken lightly. Somehow, they retrieved an image from video supervision at the building. You might be able to make something of it more than myself.**

**Email me back when you get this.**

**Love,**

Marcello 

After reading his message, I downloaded the attachment. The image was grainy and hard to interpret, but memories sparked my mind as I saw the marble floor, champagne spilled with broken glasses and blood pooling around an older gentleman's head. Another man was dressed in black, as many of them present at the occasion were, and held a gun in his hand. His body was facing away from the camera, but his hair was distinguishably noticeable as dark brown or black. Unfortunately, no other characteristics stood out except that he was average height, maintained average weight, and an average build.

This man was…average. Nothing set him apart from other men, except for the fact that he held a gun in his right hand. I have never been too familiar with guns; I knew what people told me, and that was about it.

Immediately I began to print off the picture along with my cousin's email. It was insurance…just in case someone should hack into my email account.

Hell, it had happened before. At least this time I'd be safe with an extra copy.

What Ricky said earlier had struck a chord with me. I needed to get some sleep. There would be no possible way of functioning at work or while researching if I didn't.

So, instead of running down to the staff's kitchen for some stale coffee, I decided to grab any necessary dossiers and stack them in my briefcase. Before too long, I had turned off all the lights to my office and locked my door, heading out of the building.

* * *

_Saturday 11:00 P.M._

"Gordon, you there?" Batman stood outside the window leading to Detective Gordon's bedroom. He was in bed asleep, his wife sleeping next to him, a book lying across her chest. The room was dark, and Batman began to hear some rustling.

"What in God's name are you doing?" Gordon walked over to the open window, whispering very lightly. "My bedroom window? If my wife wakes up—"

"She won't," Batman whispered back. "It'll only take a minute."

"Then you better talk fast," Gordon threatened.

"She's in. Bertinelli's in."

"Good…good. She's smart—I trust that she'll keep this investigation of ours a secret?"

"I suppose she will. She already had a good deal of research."

"Yeah?"

"Stuff about armor piercing rounds and M60's in all of the Joker's murders."

"You can't get that stuff in Gotham." Gordon folded his arms across his chest.

"I think she was leaning towards the black market."

He sighed. "It's possible. We've had a few cases pop up here and there dealing with certain aspects of the black market. There are different sources one can go to in order to get what they need: ammunition, weapons, just like you said."

"You think you could help me out? Give me some names?"

"I'll look into it, but don't count on anything. Like I mentioned before, they're watching me like a hawk." Gordon looked behind him and to his wife. She lay in the same position as earlier. "You need to get out of here."

"Already ahead of you." Gordon looked back through the window: Batman nodded his head and disappeared into the darkness of the night.

* * *

_Sunday 12:00 A.M._

It was the first night I had been in my bed before three in the morning in a few weeks. My bed felt lumpy and quite uncomfortable, but it was still much better than the couch in my office. My apartment was small, but nice. With my salary, it was all I could afford.

I certainly was not the type to live paycheck to paycheck. I had a good sum in the bank, but since I am an in-depth planner, that was going to be used for my retirement…thirty years from now.

I was good at my job, but I never really felt like I enjoyed it or was fulfilled by it. While most people in college were slacking off, drinking themselves into a stupor, I was taking on almost twice as many classes per semester. I got my degree in Journalism in three years and was in the top of my class.

They say your college years are the years of discovery. I never cared enough to "discover" myself. I did what I needed in order to lead a successful life. But I was never really…satisfied.

This is essentially everything I thought of right before I would go to sleep at night. What I did…what I should have done…what I could relive…I reminisced on everything in my past.

Before I drifted into unconsciousness, there was a draft in my bedroom—just enough to cause me to shiver. Snapping out of my semi-reverie, I sat up in my bed, staring into darkness. There was a presence in the room …other than my own, of course. He was hovering over my dresser in the corner of the room. I could only guess that his sense of sight was somewhat better than mine: my eyes had not yet adjusted to the lack of light.

It was almost a dead giveaway—I had told Batman that if I were not in my office, I would most certainly be in my apartment. Now that it was well after hours, the only logical choice would be to come to my home. Unfortunately his presence and lack of introductions had made my heart race and the hairs on my neck stand up.

If he wasn't going to make the first introduction, then there was only one other option. "Batman?" I asked, barely above a whisper. He jolted, strangely rustling through papers on my dresser. "What are you doing?" I asked, leaning over my bed to turn on the lamp.

Light illuminated the room and as I glanced at my dresser, then around my room. I was the only occupant. My window was still open, the curtains swaying with the breeze. I got up from my bed and walked towards the pane, glancing down, then up, left, and right.

No one was in sight.

* * *

Hey, all! Sorry for such the long delay. Tomorrow is my last day of (high) school. It's bittersweet, but it's time to move on to my next stage in life (COLLEGE!) Anyways, life has been just a tad bit busy for poor ol' me…haha. It's in talks that I might be getting a children's book published. A friend and I made it for a class a few months back. Some people got a hold of it and decided that it's pretty decent. Who knows what'll happen with it!

Besides all that, I finished a 68-page movie script last week, and now am in the process of filming it. We'll be entering it into the Bluegrass Independent Film Festival, located right here in Kentucky! That's pretty exciting, too.

Please review!


	8. Patience

Okay, so funny story. I was surfing the web one day, and all the sudden I spilt a cup of water all over my keyboard. And my keyboard became possessed. I would push the "Enter" button, and would get some of these \\\\ things. And that happened with all my keys. So I basically had to get a different keyboard. 

I ain't gonna lie: that's not why it took me so long to update. I graduated just recently, and now I have ample summer time…to get a job. Sorry, guys.

* * *

**Chapter Eight **

**Patience**

"Master Wayne, it might be a bit more proper if you didn't sleep in until all hours of the day. It's now four o'clock in the afternoon and you've barely made an effort to clean yourself up." Bruce lay stretched out across his bed, tangled between the bed sheets. Alfred walked in carrying a tray with orange juice and two painkillers. Tucked under his arm was the morning's copy of the _Gotham Gazette_.

"Fighting crime—"

"Fighting crime, Master Wayne, is just fine. But you also have other things to worry about. Like your reputation, for example."

"We've had this conversation before, Alfred."

"And we'll continue to have it until I snap some sense into you. Whether you like it or not, you are a socialite. People watch you and pay close attention to what you do."

"Anyone in particular?"

"You were supposed to be on the front page on the _Gotham Gazette_ today. But instead, they wrote about some damn…puppy." Alfred threw the newspaper onto Bruce's lap. A small dog was pictured on the front with its owner: a slightly overweight lady. She was older, but that didn't stop the youthful grin she held from ear to ear.

"Well, it _is_ a cute puppy, Alfred," Bruce smiled at the older man. In return, he received narrowed eyes and a grumpy complexion.

"Once again, you think it's all a joke. People expected you to have a remarkable, fabulous article, and instead we're left reading about Fluffy." He handed the glass over to Bruce as well as the painkillers. "So…any exciting adventures last night?"

"Here and there. I talked to Gordon."

"And how did that go?" Alfred sat on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped gently on his knee.

"Bertinelli—excuse me—Helena Bertinelli is in. She has every intention of going after the Joker…with or without me."

"You don't say?"

"Yeah. She is already a few steps ahead with research. I'm gonna stop by her workplace tonight to see if she's progressed any further."

"The name strikes a chord with me…extremely familiar."

"I figured as much," Bruce threw the painkillers in his mouth, following them down by the extremely bitter orange juice. "God, Alfred…did you squeeze the oranges yourself?"

"You can thank Florida's Natural for that. In the meantime," he pointed his finger, "what else did you do to earn such wonderful bruises on your torso?"

"Just doing what I do best."

"Ah, yes…pillaging across the town. In other words: you have no intentions of telling me. Am I correct?"

"Not unless you don your own cape and mask, Alfred."

* * *

"Helena, this is the first day you've not shown up for work. You called in earlier, but I just wanted to make sure you were okay." There was a pause on the other end. Ricky sighed. "Are you okay?"

"Nothing's wrong. You're going to have to trust me."

"You're not sick. You're not at home and—"

"Wait! How did you know I wasn't at home?"

"I didn't. But I do now."

"You sneaky son of a—," I sighed. "I have some errands to run, and I can't do them if I'm at work. It's just one day."

"Thank God you work on a flexible schedule. Otherwise I'd have some real issues with you."

"Yeah, _really_ flexible."

"I looked at your records: did you know that you have two months of _paid_ vacation time you haven't used?"

"What can I say? I'm addicted to work." I drove my car into a parking place, right outside of a rather small home-like building. I suppose it could possibly be a house, but I wasn't sure. A professionally made sign stood in a small and recently mowed patch of grass; it read "_Dr. Eric Thompson, Ph.D. of Psychiatry_". "I got to go, Ricky. I'm getting kind of busy."

"Sure thing. Let me know if you decide to take those vacation days."

"Will do." After closing the car door behind me, I snapped my cell phone shut and placed it in my purse. The walkway to the house was paved with a few blades of grass sticking through cracks of the concrete. Upon ringing the doorbell, I heard someone scuffle about beyond the door.

"Just a minute, just a minute!" I heard something hit the wall, as if a game of catch was being played inside. The door creaked open, just enough to have one eye peek through. "What do you want?"

"Dr. Thompson?"

"Mr. Thompson now, young lady."

"Right, right…of course," I coughed, trying desperately to clear my throat. "My name is Helena Bertinelli. We talked on the phone not long ago."

"I know who you are…what is it that you need?" he repeated, sounding slightly concerned that I appeared on his porch.

"Well, I was just wondering if you wouldn't mind answering a few questions."

"I'm actually quite busy, Ms. Bertinelli." Convincing him would be harder than I thought.

"I understand that, sir." Pausing, I attempted to break the ice even further. Perhaps a change in strategy would help. "What…what exactly are you doing in there? Sounds like remodeling."

"I'm re-doing my living room. New paint new furniture, new hardwood floors…everything. I'm quite busy." he repeated.

"Yes, sir. Perhaps you could use some help? I'm pretty handy when it comes to paint. No charge," I added with a smile.

He opened the door a little bit further, almost as an invitation, but not quite. He was looking me over, trying to guess if I was legit or not. "Yeah? What would you want in return?"

"I'd like you to answer some more questions about the Joker." At this point, he opened the door completely, knocking it against the wall. "Uh…Jack Napier."

"You got some sort of obsession with this guy? What's the deal?"

"I'm cooperating with some people, trying to track him down. Any information you can give me would be essential to the investigation."

He sighed, acting as though he didn't need the help. I'm a reporter…I read him like a book. "Look, Ms. Bertinelli--"

"—Oh, please…call me Helena."

"Right. Hell of a painter, you say?"

"Well, I wouldn't brag about it, Mr. Thompson."

"Grab a brush and roll up your sleeves. God knows I could use the help." He didn't bother waiting for me to enter his home before he picked up a hammer and started beating it uncharacteristically against the wall. "Go ahead and start with this interview…or whatever you call it." At that point, I realized that he was a much more pleasant and easier person to talk with on the phone than in person. Perhaps it was just the fact that his license to practice medicine was revoked. Whatever the case, I knew that it was going to be a long afternoon.

"Well, Mr. Thompson," I stated, rolling up my sleeves and grabbing a paint roller. "What do you know about the weapon, or weapons, of choice Jack Napier used?"

"M60s…The guy loved all things automatic."

"What do you mean by that?" I dipped the roller in the paint.

"We all have certain ticks—things that set us off. Jack Napier was a very impatient man. He always lived in the 'now' and hated to wait for anything."

"Do you have any specific examples?" I already drizzled a little paint on my sleeves. I cursed under my breath, but began to focus immediately on the task at hand. I had mentioned that I was good with paint to Mr. Thompson, but as a reporter, sometimes it's necessary to stretch the truth in order to get a story. Of course, this story would never be published, so my "honest reputation" wasn't at stake.

"Whenever he asked for something, it was a demand, as if he felt he was too important to wait for anything. '_I want my newspaper! Turn on the television, now!_' He was like a four year old trapped in an adult's body."

"Did he watch the news a lot?"

"Every chance he got. He loved to hear about himself."

"So if he were ever to do anything again, it would probably be something outrageous," I pondered out loud, hoping that the former doctor would give some input.

"Go big or don't go at all, right? That was his philosophy."

"Hence the M60s, I suppose. A simple shot to the head could kill someone, but no…he wanted to make a statement. He wanted acknowledgment." I stopped rolling the paint and Mr. Thompson stopped hammering nails into the wall.

"Now you're thinking like a doctor."

"What kind of statement does he want to make, though?"

"That, I honestly don't know." While listening to him talk, I began to wonder about the murder that happened just a few days ago: Daniel Ashman. Ricky had mentioned the police suspected he was murdered by the Joker…but that just didn't seem right to me.

"When…the Joker murdered someone, he always used an M60, right?"

"That's what we've been discussing the past few minutes. Did you forget?"

"No. No…it's just…"

"What?"

"You watch the news, right? Local, I mean."

"Yeah, whenever I get the chance."

"Okay. Have you heard anything about Daniel Ashman?"

"I think I know who you're talking about: the middle aged guy that was murdered last week in the East End."

"I had a detective on the inside tell me that the police suspected the Joker. But no one, not one channel on the news ever mentioned anything about him."

"Well, hell, _I_ wouldn't even suspect Jack Napier of committing that murder."

"Why not?"

"Well, the theatrics. Of course it was the middle of the day, but nothing seemed blunter than that. Four entry wounds and two exit wounds. That seems like a hard task to accomplish with an automatic weapon."

"I agree. But the police are smarter than that—why would they suspect him?"

"Daniel Ashman could have been associated with Jack in the past. The first thing the police would consider, if that was the case, would be Jack as the suspect."

"Why do you refer to him as Jack, Mr. Thompson?"

He smirked and began beating the wall once again with his hammer. "Because he can't stand it."

* * *

And I just finished typing the rest of this chapter on my new laptop! Thank God for brother-in-laws that are doctors and can afford such outrageous graduation presents! Once again, sorry for such the long update. I got stuck, but I'm pretty sure I'm getting out of the rut. Please review my lovely people! 


	9. Psychology

So I'll go ahead and say it. There really isn't any excuse for me to take 3 months to update. Rediculous! But I just started college and have really been focusing on it. Regardless, here's my next chapter!

**Chapter Nine**

**Psychology**

_7:00 P.M._

It was late in the afternoon before I finished helping Dr. Thompson remodel his living area. As a woman of my word, I painted, helped set up the hardwood floor, and rearranged his furniture. His spirits seemed to brighten tremendously by the end of it all. Discovering that I wasn't that bad of a painter really seemed to make him, in a sense, happy.

"If you need anything--anything at all," he started, kindly ushering me out of his home.

"I'll know exactly who to call. Thank you so much for being patient with me and answering all of my questions."

"Of course, Helena, of course. I haven't met a more polite journalist."

Yes, I knew how to turn on the charm when it was needed. There was no doubt about that. I could get the rudest, most heartless man to do back flips for me in the middle of winter with nothing on but a Speedo. Just ask Ricky.

Dr. Thompson closed the door behind me, leaving me to walk alone to my car with just my thoughts. He hadn't really shared any more details about the Joker. But subsequently, I was starting to put things together.

"Very impatient…loved all the things automatic…Daniel Ashman…" I whispered to myself all these random thoughts floating around in my head. I had rather hoped that verbally they would make more sense.

Dusk began to fall on Gotham. Lights were slowly coming on in surrounding homes. Birds fell silent, and the sun had almost disappeared behind the horizon.

I hadn't really noticed my car from a distance; but now that I was nearly ten feet away from it, it was all so unmistakably clear. I dropped my purse in near horror.

My windshield was busted; someone took a sledgehammer against it. There was graffiti on the side, red and yellow paint, splayed out where all could see. It read, "Stop the hunt or pay". Under my windshield wiper was a playing card: the Joker.

_11:00 P.M._

I called the police immediately, but of course, they could do nothing to help. The perpetrator was long gone by now. But those words continued to play over and over in my mind: "Stop the hunt or pay". The kind officer was polite enough to inform me that I "shouldn't be an idiot. Stop the search, whatever the hell you're searching for."

The vigilante responsible for this must've known more about me than what car I drove. For God's sake, he even knew I was at Dr. Thompson's home and I hadn't disclosed that information to anyone-not even Ricky.

Obviously, the only conclusion that I could come up with was that he had followed me. I just assumed he was a man--it could have very well been a woman (I had seriously doubted that).

The officer that arrived at least had the decency to escort me back to my office building while my car was being towed in for repairs. I was now unlocking my office door, getting ready for a long night of tying together different strings of thought.

Opening the door, I was greeted by a familiar face--or should I say, _mask_.

"I was wondering if you'd show," I stated, unnerved by his presence.

"I could say the same for you. Long day?"

"You have no idea." He was standing against the adjacent wall, leaning back with his arms folded. Batman had a way of sending shivers down your spine without you even realizing it.

"Care to enlighten me?"

"Not really." He remained silent, staring back at me with deep, penetrating eyes. It was as if he could read my every thought. I knew he wasn't going to break the silence first. "I haven't really had time to think…put things together."

"That's why I'm here."

"Uh…" I sighed, not knowing where to even begin. "He's got such a scattered history. One thing doesn't always lead to another. I've…" approaching my desk, I dropped my purse with a load thud, "been researching his psychological patterns more than anything."

"Any particular reason why?"

"He's not doing all of this just for the fun of it."

"He may be. Perhaps that's just what makes him sick."

"In any case, it might even lead us to his next strike. When people do things, they have certain patterns and techniques. We'll go around in circles until we get things right."

"What you're saying is that he's trying to achieve something."

"Exactly. But…I took two psychology courses in college. I'm a journalist, not a therapist."

"You just talk to one, right?" He was attempting to get more answers than I bargained for. Batman stood there, still in the same position as when I arrived. His arms remained folded across his chest and at that moment, it seemed possible that he hadn't even blinked.

"Not for personal reasons if that's what you are insinuating." I slid into my chair and scooted closely to my desk, wondering how I was going to busy my fidgeting hands.

"I wasn't insinuating anything."

"I've spoken with Dr. Thompson twice in the past few days. That's it."

A change in conversation seemed to be appropriate at the time; I was just thankful that he initiated it. "You came here in a police car."

"I suppose your were watching me."

"Where's your vehicle?"

"It's getting worked on--a few repairs here and there." Well, at least it wasn't a lie.

"And you had a cop escort you back to work?"

"He, uh…saw me on the side of the road. I guess he was just being kind." I was always told that if you told the truth, you wouldn't have to remember anything. One lie just builds into a whole web, stretching out to even bigger webs.

"Okay."

All right. Another change in subject. Again. "I don't think Jack killed Daniel Ashman."

"Who?"

"Daniel Ashman. He was murdered--"

"I know about Daniel Ashman. I meant Jack."

"Jack Napier-the Joker. They're one in the same."

"So," he pushed himself off the wall and took a step forward, pausing again, "he's Jack now."

"His choice of weapon is an M60. Daniel Ashman was killed with a .45," I stated, blatantly ignoring his previous statement.

"Okay."

"I…I don't know what to do. I've hit a dead end." Batman took another step forward. He stood in front of my desk, leaning against it. I was frustrated and he could tell. "You're going to have to help. Talk to people; get inside their heads…because I'm stuck."

"Okay." Okay? Is that all he could say?

By now, he pushed himself off the desk and was getting ready to exit. I stood to watch him as he was leaving, but something began to tug at my heart. I needed an explanation.

"The other night," I began, "I was in my house, asleep. I heard somebody in my room. Now, I remember telling you to come by my house if you needed anything. But…when I woke up, this person just ran out as fast as he could. I need to know--"

"It wasn't me."

I could feel bile rising up in my throat as my heart dropped to my stomach. "Oh, my God."

"You need to lock your doors from now on."

"This is Gotham. I always lock my doors."

"Then change the locks."

"Who would have a key to my…?" I sat back down, not knowing what else to do. "Shit."


	10. Doorknob

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. There really is a good excuse, though. I've had research papers out the wazzoo in most of my classes, and I got a lead role in a play at the local theatre. So everything has been chaotic and quite hectic! But hey, here I am, getting ready to update for you guys! Thanks for sticking with me!

**Chapter Ten**

**Doorknob**

I didn't go home that night. Instead, I stayed at the office, researching nothing in particular. I had an article to do for the _Gotham Gazette_, and my deadline was quickly approaching. Batman said he'd do some investigating and would ask around. Well, technically he was _okay_ with it, whatever that means.

When the sun had risen well above the city and its skyscrapers, revealing smog and clouds of smoke pouring out of factories, I decided that it would be a good time to go to a local hardware store and purchase a new doorknob.

Batman, at least, had warned me to get a new one. It was well after three o'clock when he left my office. We didn't do much or say much of anything. I went to make a copy of an article about the death of Daniel Ashman from a rival newspaper and by the time I returned to my office, Batman was gone.

While leaving the hardware store, I attempted to hail a taxi (my car was still in for repairs). But as the third cab flew by me without so much as a second thought, an older gentleman caught my eye. His appearance seemed so familiar to me: he was slightly balding and extremely tan with an air of dominance about him. The man had exited a building across the street. Immediately the name came to me but before I could shout after him, he called out to me. "Ms. Bertinelli!" It was Benjamin Hawks, a man I met at the charity fundraiser.

After a spat of heavy traffic, I ran across the street next to him. "Mr. Hawks. I'm surprised to see you out and about on this side of Gotham."

"And the same goes for you, Ms. Bertinelli. Weren't you supposed to write about that charity event we had not too long ago?" I nearly forgot about his cocky smile. It irritated me. I began to wonder why I crossed the street to him in the first place.

"Yes but I missed the deadline."

"Oh, how unfortunate." His mock pity made me even more irritated. "An incredible journalist such as yourself?"

"We all have our moments, Mr. Hawks."

He smoothed out the invisible wrinkles in his jacket. "I won't lie to you, Helena. Is it all right if I call you Helena?" I nodded, slowly. "Well, I won't lie. Your articles are essentially the only reason I read the newspaper anymore. It's all too depressing really. All people ever seem to care about is war and obesity. But not you, Helena. You—you write the truth. And it's been quite a disappointment these past few days and weeks when I haven't seen a single one of your articles published."

He definitely knew how to turn on the charm. "That's very flattering, Mr. Hawks."

"Benjamin," he stated plainly.

"Well, Benjamin," I emphasized, "my boss has put me on a rather large story. It's taking up most of my time nowadays."

"Has he really? And how is Ricky?"

"Good, good. Do you two know each other?"

"No." And he left it at that.

"Oh…" I trailed off, slightly confused. "It just…it seems as if you know everyone."

"I do, I do—at least the significant people."

"Am I really that significant?"

"You'd be surprised how important you are."

"Important to what, exactly?"

He leaned in closer to me. It made me slightly nervous to see him so close. His cold, steel eyes seemed angry. "Everything." Benjamin placed his hand on my shoulder. The iciness had disappeared "Now I saw you hailing a taxicab. Am I correct?"

"My car is in the shop. I should be going home, actually. There's a lot I need to do." I took a step back but he continued to clutch my shoulder.

"Nonsense! I can give you a ride." He tapped on his car door. A man from the inside pushed it open, staring blankly at me.

On the way home, I continued to think of how uncomfortable the situation was. I didn't want to be in the car with Benjamin Hawks, one of the oddest and most conniving men in Gotham City. But there I sat, between Benjamin and a man who continued to stare at me. The driver occasionally stole a glance at me in the backseat as Benjamin continued to hurl questions at me—questions that I didn't want to answer. Where are you from? Italy but raised in Gotham. What school did you go to? NYU. Do you like to write? Of course. Who were your parents? Guido and Carmela Bertinelli.

"Guido Bertinelli? You must be joking!" I certainly wasn't laughing. Instead, the scowl on my face that was at one time a smile grew deeper and more frightening to look at. But Benjamin Hawks didn't seem to care.

"No, I'm not joking."

"But…that can't be possible! His entire family was—"

"Murdered. Trust me, I know the story."

"Well…either you are lying, or the story is just not true. There wasn't a whisper about it in any newspaper, the police wouldn't discuss it. Everyone had pushed it aside, claiming it to be a rumor. People said Guido fled the country."

"Take a right," I ordered the driver. He did as I instructed and I looked at Benjamin Hawks. "People will believe what they want to believe, regardless of what I say about it. And I don't like to say anything about it."

He was silent for a moment, reminiscing. But the silence became too painful for him to bear. "So where did you go for a year? The same year the Batman came into being?"

I sighed. This man wasn't going to give up. "I lived with my cousin Marcello and his family in Italy for a while before I came back to Gotham. Stop here," I instructed the driver. He pulled over in front of my apartment building. The strange looking man opened the car door and stepped outside, waiting for me to exit as well. As I did, Benjamin called after me.

"It was a pleasure talking to you, dear."

"Same goes for me," I shouted sarcastically over my shoulder.

* * *

I was on the third floor of my apartment building, unscrewing the older doorknob before replacing it with the new one. My landlord has received a key ungraciously just a few minutes before. Thankfully, I didn't have to explain too much to him as he slammed the door in my face before I could get a word in edgewise. So there I sat, fuming from my earlier conversation with Benjamin Hawks while trying to replace a doorknob. It was a precarious situation, as I had little patience at the time and was fuming with rage. I possess no skill with a screwdriver. 

Footsteps echoed in the hallway. It wasn't the usual thud of tennis shoes, but a "clank, clank, clank" of high-society shoes. I didn't look up at the person standing at the end of the staircase. Honestly, it wouldn't be the first time a man was staring at me in an uncomfortable, frustrating position. But his voice certainly caught my attention. "Helena? Helena Bertinelli?"

My head snapped up, and the face that greeted me caused me to scowl with contempt. "What the hell are you doing here?" The voice belonged to Bruce Wayne, his cocky smile ever so prominent. He was dressed in a black suit with a white shirt and gray necktie. Bruse walked towards me, his hands placed casually in his pockets.

"I was in town. I didn't know you lived here."

"No, I live in my office. I sleep here."

He grinned. "Yeah, that sounds about right. What are you doing?"

I sighed, dropping the screwdriver. "What, you don't want to try and guess? I'm replacing the doorknob."

"Any particular reason why?"

"Someone broke in the other night." Bruce's face held mock-concern. It made me want to punch him square in the eyes. "Don't act so surprised."

"I'm not, Bertinelli. Do you see what part of town you live in?"

"Not everyone can afford mansions like yourself. But you, Bruce Wayne, have enough money to burn down your mansion and replace it with another."

Bruce scoffed. "Everyone makes mistakes."

"Well, that was a pretty big mistake, if you ask me." He took a few steps closer, picking up the screwdriver.

"You don't sound too pleased to see me." Bruce began to fix my doorknob. I just sat there staring at him as he worked in his business suit. I brushed my hair out of my eyes, watching him work.

"Do I ever? Why are you even here?"

He finished replacing the doorknob quicker than I could even imagine. Bruce handed me the screwdriver and smiled. "I had a meeting with the owner. He's thinking about selling the place."

"What?" I nearly screamed.

"God, relax…he's thinking about selling it, but I'm not going to destroy the place. Especially now that I know you live here. I wouldn't want you to write about the big bad Bruce, coming to put more people out on the streets." He stood up, replacing one of his hands in his pocket. He began to grin, staring at me in my disheveled form. It was making me nervous. People were literally bugging the hell out of me. Bruce reached out his hand, and I accepted it as he pulled me to my feet.

Matter-of-factly, Bruce stated, "I think you should find a better apartment." He still hadn't let go of my hand.

"It's all I can afford."

"I doubt that. There are plenty more apartments in better parts of this city that are cheap."

"I don't really have time to look."

"What—is your investigation getting in the way of finding a decent place to live? I'm sure your personal safety is more valuable than this Joker case."

"You'd be surprised."

"No. I don't think I would be." He paused for a moment, looking down at our hands before quickly pulling back. "I'll help you look if you want me to."

"I don't need your help with anything, Bruce. Why the hell is my personal life everyone's interest as of late?" He crossed his arms.

"What do you mean?"

"Forget it! Thanks for you help!" I snapped, getting ready to enter my apartment. My hand was on the doorknob when he shouted.

"Hey!" The tone of his voice—the inflection: it sounded so familiar, causing chills to run up and down my spine. I didn't move. He didn't move. We stood there in the silence, my back to him. "I owe you dinner."

It slipped out before I could stop myself. "Yeah…you do."

"Tomorrow. I'll pick you up at 7 o'clock?"

"Do I need to dress up?"

"Honestly, I don't care if you show up in pajamas."

"Then I'll dress up."

Bruce Wayne walked out of the building, taking slow, giant steps towards the staircase. I stood there, with my hand on the brand new doorknob, not moving a muscle.

What the hell just happened?


	11. Mystery

Here's another nice long chapter for ya, full of dialogue! Yippy! And if you haven't seen the trailer for The Dark Knight, you have no idea what you are missing. The Joker is fantastic. Way to go, Heath Ledger!

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

**Mystery**

"What the hell was that?" Bruce Wayne mumbled, striding out the front door of Helena's apartment building. The word _mistake_ kept buzzing through his head as he sighed with frustration. It certainly _was _a mistake; of that he had no doubt. He couldn't go on a date with Helena Bertinelli. Well, technically it wasn't a date…was it? Neither of them had discussed it. "Perhaps it's just going to be an outing. Two friends going to dinner together: one male and one female. That's it. It's not a date," he continued to mumble to himself, but somewhere in the back of his head, that same voice repeating the word _mistake_ had transformed into the word _date. _Alfred stood a few yards ahead of him, leaning against a black car.

"Well, Master Wayne, you look as if things didn't go to your liking." He opened the door and heard Bruce mutter.

"It didn't." The door closed and Alfred quickly walked to the driver's side, sitting down on the plush leather interior.

"So he doesn't want to sell the building, then?"

Bruce was snapped from his thoughts. "What? No—I mean, yes, he's interested. That's not what I am talking about, Alfred. Helena Bertinelli lives there."

"Does she really?" He revved the engine.

"I ran into her in the hallway. Something's not right."

"What's that, sir?" He merged into traffic.

"She makes plenty of money and lives in a place like that."

"Perhaps she spends all of her money on expensive gowns and buys expensive champagne." Bruce scrunched his eyebrows.

"What?" he demanded in near disbelief.

"It's just a thought, Master Wayne."

"She isn't that type of girl."

"What type of girl is she, Master Wayne?"

His blood froze. "What makes you think I would know something like that, Alfred?"

Alfred remained silent, stealing an occasional glance through the rearview mirror at Bruce. The young man narrowed his eyes, watching the quickly passing buildings through the window. Helena was indeed perplexing. Bruce never knew a woman to have so many mysteries surrounding her.

Alfred came to a stop at an intersection. "Well, don't let it worry you too much. There are plenty of other things you can have occupy your time."

He could hear Bruce sigh, smacking his head against the window. "I'm taking her out to dinner tomorrow."

The car was eerily silent for a passing moment. Alfred cleared his throat. "On…on a date, sir?"

"No!" Bruce shouted, much louder and quicker than he had intended. "No, it's not a date. It's…an outing between two friends."

"Call me daft, sir, but I believe that sounds like a date." Bruce closed his eyes and once again smacked his head against the window.

* * *

_I couldn't possibly be going on a date. Helena Bertinelli does not date. I don't have time to date! I'm in over my head, way in over my head_. My mind kept buzzing over and over again the same lyrics to the same, sad, old song.

Let's go over the facts that prove this is _not_ a date. Fact number one: I do not like Bruce Wayne. He's pompous…and arrogant. _And rich and good looking_.

Perhaps we could skip that fact. Fact number two: in a traditional sense, the man pays for the food. I, or course, will be paying for my own meal. Two different people on a not-date event means that there are two meal tickets.

As of that moment, those were the only facts that I could come up with. I suppose it being on a Friday night isn't helping matters any. And that I said I would dress up. It was going to be hell.

* * *

_Friday 9:30 a.m._

I walked into my office a few minutes late. But considering all of the overtime I had put in, Ricky didn't seem to mind. He barely raised an eyebrow to my presence as I rushed out of the elevator and on to the main floor. Cubicles lined up in perfect rows with people milling about. They all seemed to take their work so seriously: dressing up conservatively, the women pulling their hair back in to sleek buns and the men with perfectly trimmed beards or no beards at all. This morning, I had to seriously reconsider not coming to work in sweatpants.

Before anyone could weave their way through the mess of workers and cubicles to talk to me, I was in my private office, locking the door. For the next few hours, the last thing I wanted was a visitor. Something had perturbed me the day before. My first intention of the day was to research a strange and disturbing man by the name of Benjamin Hawks.

My laptop loaded up and I immediately signed on to the Internet, typing his name in the search bar. Hundreds of results showed. The only logical place to start would be at the first link. Clicking it lead me to a rival news organization. The title of the article read "Philanthropist Benjamin Hawks Arrested on Drug Charges". The date was five years ago, before my time as a journalist.

Benjamin Hawks, noted for his work in charitable organizations leading towards the development of homes for lower-class citizens of Gotham City, was arrested Tuesday evening on drug related charges. An inside source has revealed that Hawks had stored drugs in several facilities bordering the East coast of the city. His company, Hawks Industries, Inc., refused to comment on the situation. A statement has yet to be released by the Commissioner of the GCPD.

I scribbled down his company's name, continuing to read the article. There was a knock on my door. I got up and unlocked the door, not taking a second glance at Ricky as he entered. He closed the door behind him. "What's up?"

"Nothing. Just researching." I didn't want a visitor or an audience. Perhaps he would make this quick, but it was doubtful. "Anything you need?"

"No, I…saw you come in. You looked a little frazzled." He rubbed his hand over his balding head, leaning against the wall.

"Frazzled?"

"Yeah. Is everything okay?"

"I'm surprised you even noticed me coming in." I began to glance over the other links. "Everything's okay."

"You sure?"

I looked up at him. "Seriously. What is this, twenty questions or something? I told you I'm fine."

"Helena, I can tell when something's up. And something is definitely up."

Leaning back in the chair, my eyes slowly drifted from the computer screen to Ricky. He was watching me, as well, his eyes filled with sincere concern. "Where's my key? To my apartment?"

"You're key?"

"You are the only other person besides me that has one. Where is it?"

"It's on my key chain, which is in my desk. Why?"

"Because, Ricky, someone broke in to my apartment the other night!" He didn't respond, but I could tell he seemed upset, what, with the twitch in his eye. "There wasn't any damage done, and nothing notable was taken. Get that look off your face, Ricky. I'm fine." He still didn't utter a sound. It was his silent way of saying 'explain'. I couldn't bear looking at him while I spoke. "I changed the locks and um…I took care of all that stuff."

"Is that all?"

"Not really, no! My car was…sort of trashed."

"Trashed?" He scoffed.

"The windshield was broken and there was graffiti written on the side. There was also a joker card under the wipers."

"Are you serious?" Ricky grabbed my chair and swiveled me around to face him. " Helena you have got to stop! This is not worth risking your life over." His eyes were wide, hinting towards his anger. "Drop the case. I'm not kidding."

"Ricky," he had me cornered. I knew he was right in a logical and rational sense. He wouldn't stop harassing me about it until I assured him I was through with it all. "I've hit a dead end, anyway."

"No! That's not good enough. I know that as soon as you get another lead, you're gonna be off after this guy again." He took a step back, shaking his head. "What—what did the graffiti say?"

"Stop the hunt or pay." He was still shaking his head. "I'm not afraid of them, Ricky."

"I'm beginning to think you should be! They're going to have your head on a platter if you keep this up! I swore to your cousin, Helena—to Marcello. I swore that I would take care of you when you came back."

I shot up from my chair, knocking it into the wall behind me. "I don't need a babysitter! I know you made a promise, Ricky, but I'm not turning back now. Marcello will get over it if he doesn't understand. I'm going to do what it takes to get this guy."

His gaze slowly went blank. There was no more fight in him—no more arguments. He knew that I would always win. If he were to ban me from the investigation, I'd quit my job. Losing my career to catch the psychopath was worth it. Everything was worth it. And he knew. His words came out softer than before. "I'm buying you a gun."

"Ricky, I—"

"I'm buying you a gun." It was more forceful this time. "You're going to live, sleep, and eat with that thing." He walked out of the office without a second glance.

* * *

_Friday, 7:45 p.m._

"So…do you know what you're getting?" Bruce sat across the table, his eyes peeking over the menu. He had done a wonderful job of picking out one of the most expensive restaurants in Gotham City. The items on the menu didn't come less than 20 dollars. I had glanced over the desserts as well, noting that a chocolate cannoli was in the range of 60 dollars. For a cannoli. One. I could only assume Bruce had picked such a lavish restaurant so he could pay for my meal as well as his. But I refused to let it happen, even if it meant that I had to settle with nothing more than a house salad and glass of water.

He continued to watch me, slowly letting the menu fall on to the table. He was dressed to near perfection. His hair had refused to move out of its place, although he did nothing different with it. That's how his hair was. I lowered my own menu to look at him. He was leaning forward, his hands placed lightly on the table. Bruce seemed…eager.

"I don't know," I stated vaguely. "I'm still looking for the cheapest thing on here. When I find it, then you'll know."

"Helena, money's not an object."

"When you're buying your own meal, it is." _Please don't say anything. Just let my pay for it._

"Okay," he mumbled, sighing as he did so. Good. So it wasn't a date.

"What are you thinking about getting?"

"Perhaps the Veal Parmesan." I scoffed. "What? Are you a vegetarian?"

"Not at all," I placed the menu on the table. "I'm a meat and potatoes kind of girl. Just as long as the meat wasn't a baby when it was slaughtered."

"Well, I can't let it die in vain."

"Very noble of you." He raised his eyebrows at me. I didn't give him a second look—the waiter had arrived. I ordered the chicken salad while Bruce ordered the veal, just as he said he would. But as soon as the waiter came, he had left.

"So…"

"So…" I might as well make the best of an awkward situation. "How is Wayne Enterprises?"

"It's productive. And how is your private investigation?"

"It's complicated."

He took a sip of out of his glass of red wine. "Complicated?"

"I think I've hit a dead end with the Joker." I nearly choked trying to speak. The thought of quitting the case made me nauseous. I had never been a quitter. Not once in all my years had I given up on something, especially if I had set my mind to it. "And it kills me to say it, but…I might have to stop with this whole thing. Ricky is trying to scare me out of it."

"You don't seem like the type who would want to quit." I shook my head. "May I offer a suggestion?" With a shrug from my shoulders, he continued. "Go in a different direction. Don't just focus on the Joker. I'm sure there are many other aspects of the situation you could explore."

"Like?"

"For example: where does he get his weapons from?"

He was right. I was never really an investigator. Not like this, at least. As a journalist, I write stories about people, places, and things. I write the truth. I don't ever _dig _for stories and I don't shove my nose in places where it doesn't belong. I've never tried to track down a crazed psychopath before. But perhaps I was going about this in all the wrong ways. I knew the obvious things about the Joker, but what about his weapons? Who was he associated with? What kind of deals could he have fabricated in the past? "I'm going about this in the wrong way. I know _who_ and _what_ he is. Now I need to learn about his people and associates. It's all interconnected."

"Exactly."

His one word threw me out of my reverie. I was no longer thinking of the insane killer who murdered my family. The Joker had diminished and was barely an afterthought. I was in the restaurant with Bruce Wayne, one of the most influential and powerful men on the planet. I was having dinner with him in an expensive and flourished bistro. I felt so…out of place. It was unnerving. He noticed it, too.

"Why do you do it, Helena? Why are you going after this bastard?"

"Bruce…" I sighed, slouching in my chair. "I can't expect you to understand any of this. My life is a mystery, sometimes even to me. I'm not trying to be dramatic about the situation, honestly. I know how we women can be. But…" And from the look in his eyes, I could tell that he already knew. He knew far more than I had given him credit for. Bruce just wanted the thoughts floating around in his head to be confirmed.

"Tell me—"

"Tell you what?" I raised my voice, noting that a nearby couple had sent cold glances in our direction. I clenched my eyes shut. "I know he did it, Bruce. I _know_ he did it!" They slowly slid back open, watching Bruce's expression. "I know that he murdered every member of my family. I know that he was after my father. I know that he wants me dead, too. My car was towed in for repairs after they razed it. I changed the locks on my door, but they'll just find new ways to break in. Ricky wants to buy me a gun so I can sleep with it next to my bed! So, Bruce, what is it that you want me to _tell_ you? What is it that you don't already know?"

Bruce was silent. His eyes remained calm and steady, looking down at the rim of his glass. His fingers, unshaken, grasped it and tilted it to one side. He watched the red liquid lean one direction before he set the glass down on the table once again. "I want to know why everyone considers you the greatest journalist in all of Gotham City. Why are you so renown?" A smile tugged at his cheeks.

"Are—are you trying to irk me?" I sat up straight, watching his lips slowly curve into a grin.

"No, I'm not trying to irk you! It's something I've wanted to know for quite a while, now. Everyone has always seemed so complimentary of you. Why is that?"

I shook my head incredulously. This man had to be one of the most perplexing, manipulative, cocky guys I've ever met. But I could easily tell that it was all a front. He was, deep down, caring and sensitive. _What am I thinking? I should not be thinking _this_, I know! _I scoffed. "All right. That I can definitely tell you. I did an article about three years ago detailing the corruptness of the media in Gotham City. I exposed nearly a dozen journalists having ties and connections to Falcone, mainly dealing with drugs. Because of this, two rival news outlets were shutdown due to all the criminal busts. The commissioner of the GCPD threw a banquet for my 'civilian efforts' and me. In his speech he used the adjectives 'renown' and 'greatest'. It kind of stuck with me." I smiled sheepishly.

"Damn! That must have taken you weeks to uncover."

"Actually it was four months to the day. Ever since then, the Gotham Gazette has been the number one newspaper outlet in the city. I've had it good with Ricky. He acts as if he owes me, but I was just doing my job. I would much rather people let me do my job then get all those compliments."

He wouldn't stop toying with his glass of wine, rocking it in circles. "Compliments are nice, though." By now, Bruce had sloshed a little droplet of wine onto the table. But he had blatantly ignored it. His eyes were focused on mine, studying me. "You mentioned your father earlier. What did he do?"

I was taken back that he would ask something like that. Didn't he know who my father was? "Franco? He was a…businessman."

His eyebrows rose. "Really? What kind?"

"He dealt with trade and commerce." The way I said it held a sense of finality to it. I was tired of hearing myself talk.


	12. Resentment

R.I.P. Heath. Sorry guys. School this semester is kicking my butt, and I can honestly say that I had no intention to write anything until it's over. I have two finals left, one tomorrow—excuse me—_today_. So after I post this, I'll be doing some major cramming. Please review, and don't pull out the torches and pitchforks!

**

* * *

**

Chapter 12

**Resentment**

The night continued to drag on. It became my primary concern to get out of the restaurant as soon as possible. Bruce Wayne was not a bad guy, I learned. He was a great guy with many concerns swimming around in his brain. It was almost annoying just how concerned he was about me—like he had an underlying reason why he was so worried. I could tell from the look in his eyes that he wanted to grill me on my father, on my stories, any possible leads. But there came a time where I was sick of hearing myself talk. Since Bruce Wayne is such the mystery, he also hated talking about himself. How convenient: two people stuck at a table that hated talking about themselves.

The waiter came over to our table and delivered the ticket to Bruce, but I intercepted just in time. "We'll need to split this in two checks, please."

"No, it's fine, waiter. I got it covered." Bruce reached for the ticket and slightly winced under my glare.

"Waiter, I said two checks, please."

"Helena!"

"Bruce!"

"One check, Helena…" He was grinding his teeth. This isn't something I was going to get away with.

With a childish gesture, I slammed back into the chair, crossing my arms. "Fine."

He looked back at the waiter, giddy that he finally won over me. "Sorry about that. She's very stubborn."

"Pot: meet Kettle," I murmured under my breath. Bruce didn't seem to hear me, or if he did, he completely ignored the comment. He handed him the payment in cash and the waiter dismissed himself. "I told you before that I would pay for myself."

"I'm telling you now to suck it up." He raised his eyebrows, daring me to say anything else. Before I could retort, the waiter came trotting back.

"Miss, there is a gentleman here to see you."

"Gentleman? Who is he?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but he wouldn't give me a name. He's tall, dark brown hair, extremely tan…he's standing outside by the front doors."

I stood to leave and Bruce repeated my actions. "I'm going with you."

"Bruce, I think I can handle it." The waiter slowly stepped away, knowing that another altercation was about to commence. Bruce stepped overwhelmingly close to me. I could smell the cologne he wore—something much to expensive, I was sure, and my breath hitched in my throat. _What? My breath doesn't __**hitch**__. That cologne is probably just too strong._

"Listen to me. You don't know if this guy is with the Jack Napier or not. He might be hell-bent on killing you, and I'm going with—"

"What did you say?" He looked at me, searching my eyes. They were wide with shock.

"Huh?"

"You said Jack Napier. How did you know that was the Joker's name?" I most certainly didn't tell him. I didn't tell anyone his name—or alias—except for…

"You told me."

"No. No, I didn't. Don't lie to me, Bruce."

"Oh…" He was searching for an answer, and it couldn't possibly have been the truth. So he settled for the generic response. "I could have sworn you did. Maybe it was somebody else." I shook my head. There was no way he would tell me the truth. Well, at least not now. Maybe he was just as interested in the Joker as I. But it just didn't seem logical.

"Whatever. I have to go meet this guy. Are you coming or not?" Telling Bruce that he couldn't come wasn't an option for me anymore. His domineering presence almost had me running for the hills, and his foreboding presence seemed quite familiar to me.

"I'm coming. But I most certainly don't think this is a good idea." We walked to the front doors and I spotted our waiter. I smiled sheepishly at him, and he duck behind a table and hid. Perhaps he thought World War Three was going to go down right outside the restaurant between Bruce and I. But once we stepped outside, the frigid air hit me. The gentleman that supposedly wanted to see me was nowhere to be found.

"Maybe he got smart and left." Bruce announced loudly, just in case the man was in earshot.

"Maybe it was just a trick to get us out the restaurant because you were being loud and rude in front of the waiter." Before he could retort, the same waiter came outside, holding a piece of paper in his hand.

"Miss, the gentleman told us that he was very busy and couldn't stick around. Instead, he had the hostess right down a message. Here you go." He handed the paper to me, and I unfolded it, eagerness getting the better of me. My hands were trembling.

"Calm down there, tiger," Bruce whispered, leaning over my shoulder to read the letter. The waiter scampered back inside before the threat of WWIII became a reality.

_Dear Helena,_

_Benjamin Hawks is cordially inviting you to dinner with him on Saturday, the 16__th__, at 6:00 p.m. at this very restaurant. It would be wise to heed his request. Have a wonderful dinner with Bruce Wayne, and please notify him that Benjamin sends his regards. He was very surprised to learn that your father was, in fact, Guido Bertinelli, and would love to learn more about the family business Guido was involved in._

_Sincerely,_

_Travis Denton, P.A._

"I thought you said your father's name was Franco," Bruce stared incredulously at me.

"Is that what your main concern is about this letter?" I shouted, thinking him insane. "The man must be having me followed! I can't believe this! How did he know that I was having dinner with you? It would be _wise_ to _heed_ his request?! Who does he think he is?" I crumpled up the paper, but before I could throw it, Bruce snatched it out of my hand.

"Calm down, Bertinelli!" He smoothed it back out. "You'll need the time and date for your outing with the creep."

"I'm not going out to dinner with him! You must be INSANE!"

He snickered. "Yeah, you're right. I am insane." He smirked and right then, I had the incredible urge to tackle him to the ground, pounding his face in. This was no laughing matter—not in the least bit. "Why did you tell me your father's name was Franco?"

"Because it _was_ Franco."

"Not according to this letter." He shook it in front of me.

"Guido was a nickname. My father took over the family business when my grandfather passed away. _His_ name was Guido, so it just carried over and stuck with my father. Who cares?" I crossed my arms, irritated that Bruce and Benjamin were so damn curious about my life. "This is getting pretty ridiculous."

"What is?"

"Hawks, the fact that he had me stalked, your inquiries about my life, everyone bringing up my father in conversation."

"You don't like talking about him." It wasn't a question, but a statement of truth.

"Case and point! Why would I talk about someone who—" I waved my hands, signaling to anyone who was observing but stopped short of finishing my statement. "No, I don't like discussing him."

"What were you going to say?"

"Forget it, Bruce."

"Helena…" He folded his arms, taking a step closer to me. I felt the same thing as before—Bruce standing this close made me nervous, and I most certainly didn't like it. "Seriously. Who was this guy? Why did you hate him so much?"

"It's nothing, okay?"

"I'll find out sooner or later. Why not sooner?" I didn't say anything. "Why don't you trust me?"

"It's not you Bruce. It's everyone. I don't trust people. I have a predisposition to be cautious of everyone: even Ricky." My eyes slid closed, not wanting to him to see me. It seemed like every time I made eye contact with Bruce, he delved into my soul or something. It was unnerving. He could read my like an open book.

Before I knew it, I felt two strong and warm hands gently grasp my shoulders, forcing me to look at him. He was concerned, although I was sure that it was probably fake. It always was. "I have a hard time trusting people, too."

"Do you?"

"Yeah. There are a lot of things you don't know about me. Nobody does. I can never, ever, tell people what these things are. And it kills me," Bruce whispered the last statement, "because I feel shut off from the rest of the world."

"Then open up, Bruce. Talk to me."

"No. I can't tell you, least of all." I took a step back and his hands fell from my shoulders.

"You just told me to spill the beans to you about my entire life, basically, and you're refusing to tell me anything about yours? Isn't that a tad bit hypocritical?"

"Yes, it is." My mouth gaped.

"How unfair is that!" I scoffed at him, the supposed _man_ standing in front of me. "Why not? Is it because I'm a journalist? You think that as soon as you tell me a deep dark secret, I'm going to run to the press?"

"I know you wouldn't do that, Helena." His eyes were pleading—pleading for me to stop. "You can't possibly understand—"

"You're right, Bruce. I don't understand." I turned my back to him, hoping that the icy tone from my voice would push him away. "Call Alfred. I want to go home. And I don't ever want to see you again."


	13. Revelations

I'm making a vow right now. I will reply to all the people who review my story. I haven't been the greatest replier, but I swear, I'm going to work on that.

Anyway, here's the next installment of Bird of Prey. I had a hard time thinking about how the plot was all going to fit together, but I think I finally got it worked out…hmm…maybe I should jot it down before I forget. Anyway, school is out, I passed all my classes; I received yet another lead role in a play, that play is over, and now I'm in another show in our great capitol of Frankfort with a minor role. Oh, and I'm still looking for a job. That's the update on my life! Please enjoy the chapter, and tell me what you think!

I also believe that this is the most important chapter I have written for Bird of Prey so far.

* * *

**Chapter 13**

**Revelations**

_Thursday, 3:40 P.M._

It had been six days since I last saw Bruce Wayne. He had called twice and left a message once. Thankfully, he wasn't the type of person to become obsessed and demanding. I had made myself very clear: I didn't want to see him again, and he knew that I meant it. I did. I honestly did.

I **did**.

The case with the Joker had hit a brick wall. I had no alternate leads and the passion that had been driving me for months on end was slowly fading away. It was heart wrenching to know that the man who murdered my parents would never be brought to justice. The police and authoritative figures of Gotham would do nothing. They no longer had any power, thanks to the criminals and corrupt. The city was surely dwindling and all that was moral and good was nearly gone. To fight for something good like this was pointless in the grand scheme of things. How many criminals could a journalist help put away? Not enough—never enough.

During the past week, sleeping had become more troublesome. Insomnia was gradually creeping its way back to me; having just an hour or two of sleep a night was a blessing. Work was slow—nothing major had happened within the last few days. There hadn't been a single murder or robbery linked to the Joker, according to police reports. But who would know now? The FBI had taken over and they never talk about an ongoing investigation.

So here I sat, staring at a blank computer screen, rocking back and forth in my chair.

My phone suddenly rang. I reached over and picked it up. "Helena Bertinelli," I said nonchalantly.

_"Ms. Bertinelli, this is Detective Gordon from the GCPD. I was wondering if I could have a moment to speak with you."_

My throat hitched. Why would Gordon be calling me? Unless if it was related to…

"Of course, Detective. I'm not busy. How can I help you?" I began to sit up straight in my chair and grabbed a pencil and notepad, just in case.

_"It's in regard to the Joker. Now, Ms. Bertinelli, I must ask you not to repeat what we are about to discuss with anyone—except for the person you are collaborating with on this investigation. Do you understand?" _

"Are…are you referring to Batman, Detective?"

_"I am. As you could probably guess, I can't rightfully get into contact with him. Can I trust you with this information?" _

"Yes, you can. I had no idea that you were involved with this as much as myself, Gordon. Quite frankly, I've hit a dead end."

_"Hopefully I can help with that. I'm serious, Ms. Bertinelli. If the commissioner finds out that I'm discussing this with you and…**him**…I could get into some serious trouble. Not a word to anyone."_

"You have my word. I'm all ears."

_"I have a possible lead with suppliers—black market. Anyone with a brain knows that, in Gotham, a citizen can hardly get a hold of an automatic weapon. The local government uses it as a cover up—it actually makes them appear as if they are doing something responsible for this city. In their minds, no automatic weapons means less crime. Do you understand what I'm saying?"_

"Of course. You'd have to go with the black market to get these supplies."

_"Exactly—and in mass number. But I'll get to that in a moment. Do you remember Carmine Falcone?"_

"I do. Unfortunately, I was out of town when he was finally arrested."

_"He basically monopolized the black market and crime in his day—sort of like Bill the Butcher of New York. He was the head of the Gotham City Mafia and controlled many of the criminal activities going on. When he was captured, there was a lull in organized crime for a few months. Then, all of the sudden, criminal activity began to pick up again. But Falcone was out of the picture."_

"Someone else had taken over."

_"Right. Now, the Joker had always been an independent criminal years before the Falcone arrest. But now, he no longer works alone. He has a posse of cronies at his beck and call."_

"You're thinking it's connected to the Gotham City Mafia?" I quickly jotted the newly discovered material down.

_"Yes, I do think it is."_

"All right! So, we infiltrate the system. We find out where the Gotham City Mafia operates."

_"I wish it were as simple as that. They don't have a headquarters. The members include drug lords, cops, judges, gangs, the rich, the poor, et cetera. It's too diverse to tackle the entire organization."_

"So…what do we do?" I tapped my pencil against the desk, wracking my brain.

_"We go after the man in charge."_

"Who is the man in charge?"

_"I haven't been able to come across his name—yet. But according to people at the GCPD, he goes by the 'Boss.' It won't be easy—not by a long shot. You'll have to play a major part in all of this."_

I stopped moving completely, unable to breathe. "What do you mean?"

_"You have connections, however small they may be. And even if you don't have connections, you have your last name. Franco was a powerful man. As one of only two survivors in your family, you command a lot of respect."_

I dropped my pencil and leaned back in my chair. "You want me to pretend like I was apart of his mafia?" It was the first time I had mentioned my father's business—to anyone—in such a long time. "Gordon, I was never apart of it. He sent me off to boarding school so I wouldn't grow up around it. They'll never believe I had anything to do with the…family business."

_"Maybe, maybe not. What other choice do we have? Me? I'm a cop. Batman? He's pretty conspicuous. We're the only three people that have delved in to it this deep, and you're the only one with a good cover."_

"I'm a journalist—an honest one, at that. I'm kind of _known_ for my honesty. Do you actually think they would take me in as one of their own?"

_"Yes. I think you fail to realize how powerful your father—your entire family—really was. They would accept you with open arms."_

"It's risky."

_"Everything worthwhile is risky."_ He got me there.

"Give me some time to think about it."

_"Call me when you decide. We'll have to talk this through some more. I don't want you getting in to this not knowing what to expect."_

"Gordon, it's like the blind leading the blind."

He chuckled. _"It is, indeed."_ And with that, he hung up the phone. I held my receiver in my hand, still in shock about revelations the past few minutes brought. My notepad was full of words that began to jumble in my mind. Possibilities of who the new leader of the Gotham City Mafia was started to pop up. Then, a sudden thought struck me.

What if, in the grand scheme of things, the Joker was just a pawn? What if he just represented the GCM?

The "what ifs" began pouring in, and before I could even realize it, people in the building started leaving for home. It was now 5:00, and I knew rush hour would be awful. So I decided to wait in my office for a few more hours to mull over my thoughts. Maybe, if I were lucky, tonight I would get a certain visitor.

We certainly had a lot to discuss.

* * *

Midnight

I had gotten on the Internet and searched for any files or documents discussing the Gotham City Mafia. Having found numerous results, most of them were news articles—the same, one after another. I had not realized how big of a crime ring this actually was when over one million results popped up on the screen. I sighed and took a sip of my now cold coffee, clicking link number thirty-two. This was definitely getting me nowhere, and fast.

A chill breeze suddenly came through my office. Looking up, I noticed that the window was now opened and there he was…standing in the shadows of the room, trying to act all mysterious.

I leaned back in my chair. "I haven't seen you in a while."

"I've been here every night. You haven't," his tone was harsh and cold. The night didn't seem too kind to him. He was ragged and was out of breath.

"There really wasn't a need. With no leads, what were we going to do? Sit around and have a tea party?"

He ignored my quip. "Does that mean you have something to share with me?"

"Perhaps. James Gordon called me today."

"Did he?"

"I wasn't aware that he was in on our little investigative group we had going on."

"He was apart of it before you were." There was a tone in his voice. I couldn't quite describe it other than degrading.

"Well that was kind of you to tell me. I could have figured a lot of this information out sooner if you had."

"I seriously doubt that." I was shooting daggers at him now. No longer did I have the patience or the time to deal with his moodiness.

"What crawled up your ass and died?"

"We're dancing around the subject. Aren't we supposed to be discussing the Joker?"

"Yes, we are. But it's difficult to do that when you're being such a dick. Just because you wear a cape and mask doesn't mean you get to act all high and mighty with me. I don't like being talked to as if I were a second-class citizen. Do you understand me?" My arms were crossed and my breathing became heavier. It was about time this man stopped prancing around, acting just as I described him: high and mighty.

He paused, and I could tell that he wanted to say something to piss me off even more. But knowing that he would never get any information out of me by doing that, he held his tongue. I admired that he had even shown me a slight amount of patience. So, I decided to lighten up a bit.

"Next time, just tell me if I can talk to someone about all of this. That way, we won't have to go a week without getting any information. Deal?"

"Okay."

Without lingering on what just happened, I continued on. "Look into the Gotham City Mafia. After Falcone was arrested, they gained a new leader known as the "Boss". If I were you, I'd find out who and how many are involved in this organization and take them down. One at a time, if necessary. Gordon thinks we should put all our focus on the Boss, though."

"I don't understand. What does the GCM have to do with the Joker? He always works alone."

"Maybe everyone was just under the impression that he worked alone. That could be why it's so hard to track him down. Batman," I stated, feeling slightly uncomfortable calling him that, "I think he's just a pawn. In the grand scheme of things, who is Jack Napier compared to other people in the GCM? We're talking judges, cops, and drug lords. What if the Joker is just a lunatic they use as the face of their organization?"

"It's a stretch. From past experience, he has always worked alone. What makes now any different?"

I closed my eyes, swallowing my pride. "You, the death of my father, and my return to Gotham City."

When I opened my eyes again, he was staring at me (as far as I could tell; he still stood on the opposite side of the room). He repeated himself, "I don't understand."

"I'm not a sappy person. I want you to understand that. Shit happens: you live, you learn, and you move on. You don't dwell on things in the past. My father was a terrible person. He had a lot of enemies and a lot of money. He was the leader of large and overt gang. A mafia—picture The Godfather or The Sopranos, in real life. Having been gone to boarding school all my life, I didn't learn any of it until I was about 20 years old. He owed people a lot of money towards the end of his life. He had the money, but the man was just so damn stubborn and greedy. So they killed him—along with the rest of my family. They thought they had killed me, too. But when I learned that the money would be left to me, I gave half of it away and put the rest in mutual bonds and certificates of deposits. My cousin in Italy just purchased a 6,000 square foot home. And the bastards responsible for my family's death? I have a feeling that they still want their share."

"And you're thinking…"

"It was the GCM. And that the Joker really is a pawn."


	14. Cackle

The Dark Knight is everything I thought it would be, and more: sheer brilliance. Christopher Nolan, Christian Bale, Aaron Eckhart, and Heath Ledger are wonderful.

I've been waiting a long time to write this chapter. And it's finally here! There is a lot of dialog!

* * *

**Chapter 14**

**Cackle**

Why was this guy so hard to track down? In the past, the Joker was always one for making a scene or spectacle. He wanted anarchy and chaos, and he wanted everyone else to feel the same way. _Corrupt the uncorruptable: _it was his philosophy. If that could be done, then anarchy would ensue.

So what was so different now?

Batman had left my office about twenty minutes ago—through the window, of course. I was shutting my computer down and getting ready to turn off the lights in the building when my cell phone ringed. The number was "unknown". I flipped open the phone and answered. "Hello?"

"_Helena Bertinelli?" _The voice was disguised.

"This is she. Who's calling?" I slug my purse over my shoulder and leaned against my desk.

"_Never mind that. You're getting yourself into a heap of trouble."_ My throat hitched. My brain immediately went into panic mode.

"What do you mean? Who is this?"

"_You need to stop whatever it is you're doing. And you __**know**__ what you're doing."_

My first instinct was to lie. "I'm not doing anything. Tell me who you are!"

"_I can't do that. The Boss will be coming for you if you don't stop."_

The Boss. How did he know about my research with the Boss? "I don't know who this Boss is."

"_You're going to deny all of this?"_

"Of course, I am! I don't know what you're talking about!"

"_Then God help you. They're coming." _The line went dead. This man obviously wasn't buying into anything I was saying. I stared at my phone for such a long time, trying to comprehend what just took place. After a few moments, it still didn't make any sense. Immediately, I threw my phone into my purse and turned off my desk lamp, rushing to the elevator of the building. The doors closed and seconds later, I was on the ground floor, running out of the building.

It was dark. The streetlights were all shut off. My car was parked about a block away and I wasted no time getting there. While sprinting, I reached into my purse, digging for my keys. I could see my vehicle getting closer…20 feet away...10 feet…

A pair of strong hands gripped into my shoulder as I was slammed into my car, my head hitting against the window. Pain shot through my entire body while I struggled to get free, but everything was blurry from the impact. My voice failed me—I couldn't scream as I heard a cackle from behind. "Well, well, well…"

Stiffening, the hands that were roughly holding me in place slung me around. Three men surrounded me. Two of them wore black hoodies and of the two, one held a gun. They were smiling sadistically at me. One of them threw me back at the car and the impact made my body go rigid. "What do we have here?" The third man said.

The other two remained silent. But I could tell from his voice who the third man was, even if I couldn't see him. I heard that cackle before. "It's the lady of the hour!" He walked closer and closer and began to leer over me. "You look a little scared, Helena." He was trying to make light of the frightening situation, as was his nature. Nothing bothered him. Ever. He enjoyed every minute of it, licking his lips. "Did you get my call?" I thought it best not to answer him. "I was told someone would call you. Did he?" He waited a moment for me to answer. "Well, I suppose it's best not to talk to strangers. I'm who they call the Joker."

"I know you're real name…Jack Napier."

There was a twitch in his eyes. I had hit a nerve, but he pretended like it didn't bother him. "OH! So it's true! You are the little researcher the Boss told me all about. How wonderful!" He licked his lips again. "But who's to say that's my real name?"

"I don't really care if it is or isn't, Jack."

He cackled. "Let's just get down to business, shall we? I'm here to send a message."

"What kind of message?"

"All kinds, really." He pulled out of his pocket a switchblade. "You see, that's what I do best." He came even closer and sniffed. "Oh, you smell wonderful." It was the first time in a year I could actually taste fear. Something flickered in his eyes. "I remember you: the girl who's family was murdered—all over the news! How…quaint!"

"Where you trying to send a message then, too?"

"No, just carrying out a job for me…and the Boss."

"Who is your Boss?"

"You know? You talk to much." He jabbed me in the stomach with his fist. "You see, sweetheart, you've been delving into stuff you're not ready to handle." I gasped for breath, trying to mentally block out the pain.

"So you're working for the Boss now? I thought you were better than that."

His eyes widened. "You're wrong, sweetheart. I always work alone. I'm just…doing what is right for me: self-preservation."

"I think you're just getting nervous. Batman is closing in on you, and you're freaking out."

Jack threw his head back and cackled some more, slapping his knees. He licked his lips. "Oh, the Batman! I love playing with him. But really…all that time while you were cowering in the bathroom while your family was being murdered—slaughtered like pigs?" I winced. "I knew you were there. But I wanted you to live."

"Why?"

"Because it's fun to see someone suffer," he grabbed me by the neck and leaned in to whisper, "and I like fun."

The Joker threw me to the ground and kicked me in the ribs. His other two stood by and watched smugly as the psychopath wreaked havoc on my body, bruising and cutting it in anyway possible. He took the switchblade and ran it alongside my abdomen, cutting my shirt and leaving a thin trail of blood in its path. I wanted to shriek in agony…but I knew that it would only encourage the Joker further.

"We have ourselves a little trouper on our hands!" He pulled me up to stand, but I just crumpled back to the ground. He tried again and leaned me against my car, slapping me in the face as if to wake me up out of a trance. "My, my, my…I love guns. I really do. But there is a time and a place for them. And when you send a message, you want to make it sure sticks with the person. Guns can't do that. But knives…oh, knives sure can." His switchblade was against my throat and blood trickled down it. "So believe me when I say…I'm going to make this as _painful_ as possible."

"I believe you. I just don't care." Something like a growl came out of him as he threw me back onto the ground. He kicked me in my ribcage more times than I could count and I felt something snap: air escaped my lungs and I found it harder and harder to breath. He shoved his foot onto my head.

"Now, I wonder…if you really _are_ as hardheaded as I was told. How many times can I jump on your head before it just crushes?" The Joker put more pressure on my head, lifting the grounded foot into the air. "One…two…three!" He jumped into the air, his foot briefly leaving my head. I braced myself for the sudden impact.

But it never came. I opened my eyes and the Joker had been tackled to the ground by none other than the dark knight himself. The crony with a gun shot at Batman, but his suit had deflected it. He jumped towards him and ripped the gun free from his hands, knocking it against his head. The man fell to the ground, unconscious. He turned back to the other crony and the Joker, but they both began to scramble away. "Another time, another place, Batman!" the Joker shouted over his shoulders, laughing maniacally as he ran. They jumped into a nearby car and took off before Batman could even get close.

He turned back around and looked at me. My face was planted in the pavement, but I could see his figure in the darkness. Seconds later, he was by my side, trying to lift me from the ground. "Batman…" I whispered, easing in and out of consciousness.

"Stay with me, Helena. I'll get you to the hospital." This woke me up out of my daze.

"NO!" I coughed, not anticipating my chest to hurt as much as it did when I shouted. He cradled me against his chest. "No…they'll come after me. I can't go there."

"You need medical attention."

"Not there…please. I can't go anywhere…they'll know."

"You can't stay here."

"Please help me."

"I am. Stay with me…"

"No…they know where I live…they got in…"

"It'll be all right." And that was the last thing I heard before falling into nothingness.

* * *

"I looked at her phone and she answered a call from an unknown person just minutes before her attack."

"We have no idea who it was that called her? Not even a tiny lead?"

"At the moment, no. We may find out more when we she wakes up."

"I can't believe this is happening…I warned her. She was in too deep, and she nearly got herself killed."

"No one could have expected it to go this far. It wasn't your fault." I recognized the voice, but I couldn't quite put a name to it. Everything in my head was a jumbled mess. I raised my eyelids just enough to peep out through the slits. His face…I remembered his face.

"Ricky," I said hoarsely, trying my hardest to remember the other person's name. Ricky jolted and rushed to my side, holding my hand. There were tubes sticking out of my arm. "What the hell…"

"It's all right, Helena. You're safe now."

"I'm in a hospital?" I attempted to sit up a little, but my arms felt like jell-o and I could hardly move my head. Ricky saw what I was attempting to do and pushed a button on the bed, raising it up to where I was propped up. The name of the other person finally became clear: Jim Gordon: the detective. He was good. I could trust him. "What the hell is in my arm?"

"It's a morphine drip. Just take it easy. You've taken quite a beating," he said, standing at the foot of my bed. His arms were folded across his chest as he scrutinized me. I had no doubt that there was concern etched into his voice. I was a civilian—not a cop—and I had delved too far into this thing. I could see the guilt in his eyes. He felt remorse for dragging me into this. But it wasn't his fault. None of this was his fault. I did it all on my own free will.

"How long have I been out?"

"Two days," Ricky said, squeezing my hand in reaffirmation. "Do you remember anything that happened?"

"I need some water," I said, my throat apparently dry as I croaked out the words. Ricky reached for a cup sitting next to my bed and tilted it to my mouth. The liquid sent a burning sensation to my throat. He set the cup back down on the table as he spoke.

"The nurse had this sitting out just in case you woke up."

"I've been out for two days?"

"Helena," Jim said, uncrossing his arms and ignoring my question, "we need to know what happened to you. Who attacked you?"

"It was the Joker…and two other guys. I think there were two other guys. It could have been one. I don't really remember."

"We found one at the scene. He's been taken into custody. What did the Joker say to you?" He flipped open a notepad and began jotting down my words.

"He said something about sending a message…he wanted to make it clear that I had gone too deep in all of this research. He somehow knew…I don't know how, but he did. I thought I had been discreet about my investigation...until now. The only people who know about it are you, Ricky, and--"

Jim coughed, eyeballing me. It was a warning not to say Batman, as Ricky was sitting right next to me. I had nearly forgotten...he didn't know a thing about Batman's involvement in the investigation.

"Who else?" Ricky piped in.

"No one," I said, back peddling as quickly as I could. "You two are pretty much it." Jim quietly sighed with relief.

"Anything else?"

"Other than beating the crap outta me?" I coughed and Ricky jumped, grabbing the cup of water once again. "I'm fine, Ricky. He admitted to murdering my family."

"What about the man on the phone?" Ricky piped in, acting a bit anxious. "Did you recognize his voice?"

"No, it was distorted. He was warning me about an impending attack if I didn't stop. I thought Jack was going to kill me. But then Batman…"

"We know all about Batman, Helena. He brought you to the hospital, himself. I daresay he made a few patrons and nurses about have a heart attack."

"I'm just thankful that Batman was even there, to begin with," Ricky stated in relief. "You were lucky that the man was close-by. If he wasn't there…" he shuttered.

"I know, Ricky." I looked back at Jim whose face was still laced with guilt. "Can I have a word with Jim? Alone?" Ricky seemed taken aback.

"Are…are you sure?'

"Yes…please, Ricky. I need to talk with him about some confidential stuff."

"Why can't you say it in front of me?"

"Please, Ricky. You wouldn't understand. Just for a few minutes."

He contemplated leaving me alone which made me a little apprehensive. Anything I said to Jim didn't need an audience. This was business, and personal business. I had hoped that Ricky would understand, but he stood up from his chair, dropping my hand in the process. He straightened his shirt and lifted his head high in defiance but walked out of the room in silence. "Jim, the Joker mentioned the 'Boss'."

"Did he?"

"Yes. He was carrying out a job for him _and _the Boss. But he also said that he wasn't working for him." Jim wrote this down on his notepad, and I could see the gears working in his head. "I think he was telling the truth."

"He admitted to killing your family…so that basically destroys any links we had between your father and the Gotham City Mafia."

"Not necessarily. He said he would do it as long as it meant self-preservation, I think. Perhaps he got into shit's creek without a paddle with the GCM."

"It's all speculation. And honestly, risking your life for mere speculations isn't worth it."

"I'm doing it on my own free will, Jim."

"It's suicide, Helena."

"I don't need a lecture, and I don't need one of my closest allies in this whole mess feeling guilty about what happened to me. None of this is your fault. The blame lies on me and me alone."

"You obviously need something, lecture or not. I'm posting a guard outside of your room here. There is another one outside the Gotham Gazette headquarters and one outside your apartment. Once you get released, you're going to be on a short leash, understood?"

I nodded, knowing that at this point there would be no compromise. "How long am I going to be kept like a prisoner in here?"

"The doctor said a few days. You have 3 broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder, so bed rest is a necessity. And if all of the sudden by some miracle you do get better within the next few days, you're staying in the hospital, anyway."

"Why is that?"

"We're scoping your apartment, car, and office for bugs. It'll take a while. Plus, this hospital is protected and safe."

"Just in case someone calls, what hospital am I in?"

"Gotham General Hospital." The name of the hospital sent chills down my spine, and I couldn't figure out why.

"Okay…thank you. I'll do everything, just like you said."

He gave me an odd look, half expecting me to make a run for it. But in my current condition, anyone could see that it wasn't going to happen. Jim's face still had guilt written all over it. He was mentally kicking himself for allowing this to happen to me. But as I told him earlier, none of this was his fault. I knew what I was getting into from the very beginning. I was just surprised that nothing worse had happened. I could very easily have been killed if it weren't for Batman coming to my rescue. Thankfully he had stuck around until I left my office.

Then I began to wonder if he did that every time our meetings would end—if he stayed behind and watched until I left safely. It made me think that Batman wasn't as cold and heartless as he made himself out to be. He really did care whether or not I was safe. Did he think of me as more than just a temporary partner, here to give him information? Or was it something more? Was I more than just an accomplice?

Did I know who the man was behind the mask?


	15. Bodyguard

No need for the pitchforks and torches, folks. I had to restore my computer, which means I lost everything. Also, running my own theatre, working two jobs, and going to school have taken its toll. I decided to take the semester off and focus more on work and writing original material and running the theatre. SO…here we go! This is Part 2 of Bird of Prey.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not even Yoda…you'll see what I mean.

**Part Two**

**Chapter Fifteen**

**Bodyguard**

_Tuesday, 3:50 p.m.  
3 months later_

Sal's business was an extraordinary one. He was perhaps the most muscular man I had ever met. The looks he could conjure to potential threats of his clients were menacing, and, for lack of better words, would make a grown man wet his pants.

He was 56 years old. His hair was in the beginning stages of graying and receding. I didn't know much about his personal life, nor did I ever intend to ask him. I put together the little things he said and a few things about his appearance. Sal never wore a wedding ring, so I could only assume he wasn't married; but he's not too rough around the edges to not have a girlfriend. In fact, he was a rather friendly man—as long as you weren't a danger to him or his clients. I had a feeling that Sal had a soft spot for women. He would never intentionally hurt one of us.

Three months ago, I was stuck in a hospital suffering injuries inflicted by a raving lunatic. After I was released, Ricky, editor of the Gotham Gazette and my boss, demanded that I take a temporary medical leave from work. It was either that, or be fired. And this time he wasn't kidding.

Lieutenant Jim Gordon posted an officer outside of my apartment when I returned home. Jim was looking out for me, however annoying it was. The cop followed me _everywhere_ I went. At the time, gasoline was expensive, so I insisted that I carpool with the officer. Jim wasn't too happy with that idea. I was supposed to "go on with my everyday normal routine," and that did not include saving money or gas.

I met Sal a few days after I was released from the hospital. I attended physical therapy at a place close to my apartment in order to regain strength in my injured shoulder. Sal was there for a leg injury he obtained during kickboxing. We sat in the waiting room a good 20 minutes before both of us were called back for our therapy sessions. I asked him how he hurt himself, and he, in return, asked me the same thing.

"Do you know who it was that did it?" The man asked me.

"Yeah, and he's still out there somewhere…terrorizing the citizens of Gotham City."

"The police haven't caught him?"

"No. The Joker is too elusive, even for the police." I could see disdain in his dark eyes as I mentioned the 'Joker'.

Our therapy sessions were scheduled in different rooms, so we temporarily parted ways. I didn't see him again until I was outside of the building, getting ready to walk back to my apartment.

"Helena!" He exclaimed. The building's door closed behind me and I could smell the cool, dank, and musty scent of the city once again. "I'm glad I caught you."

The man was huge. There really wasn't any other way to describe him. To think that he needed physical therapy almost made me laugh. Almost. He didn't frighten me—not in the slightest. And if anything _were_ to happen, a cop was parked right across the street, watching his every move.

"How's the leg?" I asked.

"It'll be sore in the morning. Listen, I wanted to talk to you about something. I, uh, I own a business. Well, sort of. It's not really a business, per se, but more like a, uh…I don't know what you would call it exactly. A training facility?" For such a huge guy, he was shy.

"Training facility?" I repeated.

"Sure, we can go with that. I, uh, I teach self-defense and workout routines that build muscle mass. "

"Like kickboxing?"

"Hence the injured leg. You see, I used to be a bodyguard for some political figures back in my youth."

"Why are you telling me this, Sal?"

"I hate to see creeps like this guy who hurt you get away. You need to be prepared if something were to happen again. It's not always about defense. It's about offense, too." He knew what he was talking about—there was no more stuttering or hesitation in his words. I'm sure he gave the speech to a hundred women before me.

…Which brings me to where I've been today. I was getting my ass kicked by a man just as huge as Sal. Although this guy was a lot younger than Sal and smelled a lot more like sweat. For some reason, Sal thought I was ready, after three months of training, to wrestle a bear—a smelly bear that was trying to rip off my leg

"Sal, get this guy off of me!"

"You can get out of this situation. Don't think. Just do it!" He was the referee in the pretend fight, just in case if things were to go awry. My face was being smashed into the blue padded mat beneath me. The smelly bear was in some weird position where he had both of my arms locked behind me and was pulling my leg out of my socket. At least, that's what it felt like. I couldn't exactly see what the large man was doing or what appendage he planned on hurting next. But I suddenly had an absurd thought. If I were to ever get into another altercation on the streets and wasn't able to save myself, would Batman swoop down and save my neck again?

_Forget it,_ I thought to myself. _You haven't seen him in months. He's got bigger fish to fry now. The Joker is not even a bleep on his radar anymore. And neither are you._

The very thought made me angry—that the man whom everyone in Gotham had considered their savior, the dark knight, would give up on me. I immediately kicked the sweaty man off of me with my free leg.

"Good, Helena!" My arms were free. I flipped over on my back, now able to see the man coming back for another attack. I kicked again, this time connecting with his face. "All right, that's enough!" Suddenly, Sal was hovering over me. "This guy actually needs his face for his job. Don't go messing it up." He grabbed my hand and lifted me to my feet.

"Sorry," I mumbled to the guy. He was pinching his nose to stop the trail of blood from escaping it.

"It's okay," he said back. "Nice kick."

I tried not to smirk at the comment. Sal wrapped his arm around my shoulder and let me away from the blue mat. "Don't worry about him. He'll live. But you…" he turned my body to face him. "You've got to act faster. I let the fight continue, but in a real life situation, it would have been over long before I called it off."

"I'll try harder next time."

He shook his head. "No, no, no. There is no try—only do."

I squinted my eyes. "Is that some sort of reference to Yoda or something?"

A smile tugged at his lips. "Maybe."

"I better go. My friendly cop is probably getting ready to bust down this door to see if I've been taken captive."

"I'll see you tomorrow? Same time?"

"Sorry, Sal. I officially am off of medical leave. I start my job again tomorrow. Can I come by afterwards?"

"Of course." With that, I left the building and noticed that my cop was getting out of his squad car.

"Hey, Henry—how's it going?" Officer Henry, as I began to calm him, worked 2nd shift watching my every move…and the move of everyone I came into contact with.

"You had me worried to death! That's how it's going! Do you know how long you were in there? Since 1 o'clock! Now get in your car and go home before I have a heart attack!" I laughed as the man's face turned a purple color. He dove back into his car and followed me, rather closely, I might add, until I got back to my apartment.


	16. Grin

I have plans. Hmm....grand plans. And I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. We got some personal things to straighten out with everyone, i.e. Bruce and Helena. Am I right? Of course! :)

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

**Grin**

_Wednesday  
8:30 a.m._

"The prodigal journalist returns." My co-worker, Steve, greeted me. He had apparently taken residence in my office the past few months. "I, uh, spilt some coffee on your carpet earlier this month. Sorry."

"No harm done. Just remember that I let you use my office _while I was gone_. I'm back now." I was carrying a box of belongings into the room—nothing more than a few pictures (some of which I took in Italy), a plant, and some dossiers I considered "too close to home" to get rid of. "Mind giving me a hand?"

Steve opened the door to my office and propped it open with his foot as I marched past him. He drank out of the same coffee mug every morning since he began his job. It was good to know that not much had changed in the three months I was gone. "You been watching the news, Bert?" Steve was full of nicknames for me: two of which he used in the past few moments.

"Of course."

"Election is coming up." He took a sip of his coffee. "Everyone wants to know if you are going to cover the mayor's re-election campaign."

"We'll have to see. I just got here. I need some time to settle in and get myself organized first." I inhaled deeply and then gagged. There was a foul odor in my office. "Oh…God! What is that?!"

"What?" Steve stared at me, clueless.

"Don't "what" me! It smells like…barf and cigarettes!"

I dropped the box on my desk and followed my nose to the most prominent stench—a drawer in my desk. I grabbed the handle and jerked it open. "Get it OUT!" I screamed, glancing at what was once half a sandwich. Only God knew what it had become after countless days, weeks, or even months sitting in my desk. _My _desk.

"Oh…you know, I didn't think I ate all of that. Go figure." He reached into the drawer and pulled out the sandwich, grimacing as he did so.

"That explains the barf smell. What about the cigarettes?"

"Well, you know…" Steve walked out of my office mumbling something incoherent. As he did so, he was sure to keep the sandwich as far away from him as physically possible, not even daring to look at it. Almost as soon as he left, there was a knock on the door. Ricky's head popped in.

"My favorite girl!" He scooted close to me and gripped me in the tightest bear hug possible. It was something completely uncharacteristic of him. "How are you doing?"

"I'm doing well—ready to work, that's for sure."

"That's great news, Helena! Great news! I'm just as sure as can be you'll be able to dive right back in. Lots of stuff going on in the news business!" Ricky smiled at me. There was something definitely…off.

"Are…you okay?" I questioned, slightly concerned about his demeanor. Ricky and I—we argued. We butted heads. We fought. There, of course, was as level of respect and fondness between the two of us that wasn't necessarily understood by our co-workers, but it was there, nonetheless. Our relationship was _different_. But it was ours. And this new attitude—the smiles, the eagerness, the term "favorite girl"—this certainly was not "ours".

"Oh, I couldn't be better, Helena! I'm…" he released me from the hug, "I'm just glad that you're okay, that's all. Knowing you, you've probably been bored out of your mind sitting at home all day." I assumed now wasn't the best time to tell him about Sal. Or the self-defense classes. Or anything, really. "I wanted to stop by and visit. Really, I did. But we've just been swarmed with work. The mayor's campaign for re-election has already begun. We've had our best out in the field, but they're nothing compared to what you can do."

"…All right, Ricky. I guess I'll cover his campaign as much as possible. Are there any fundraisers coming up for him?"

"There is one on Friday. They say it's going to be huge: about 2 to 300 donators are expected to arrive. Are you interested?"

"Absolutely. Who's hosting?"

"Promise you won't flip out on me?" There's the Ricky I always knew.

"Ricky?"

"Bruce Wayne." I sighed and began to sort things out on me desk, attempting to ignore anything else said by Ricky. There was no such luck. "Now, look, Helena: Bruce specifically extended an invitation to one of our journalists, and you did say that you wanted to go! He personally called my office asking if you were going to be back in time for the fundraiser!"

I scowled. "Wasn't that just lovely of him?"

"I don't know what happened between the two of you, but you need to straighten this whole thing out with him!"

"He didn't call—didn't visit."

"You told him you never wanted to see him again!"

That was true. "I wasn't serious! I just…don't want him bugging me about my personal life."

"Then you should tell him that."

I sighed. "…I will." There really wasn't anything else I could say to Ricky. "I will."

* * *

_Friday  
9:00 p.m._

Once again, I had found myself at a fundraiser attended by the obnoxious, boastful, and egotistical socialites of Gotham. My hair was tightly wound in an up-do, my high-heeled shoes caused me pain, and my dress was too low-cut. The last time I found myself in this situation, I met Bruce Wayne for the first time. Now, he was hosting the fundraiser…and I was trying my hardest to avoid him until I had a detailed speech planned out in my head. It went something along the lines of, "Bruce…I'm sorry for being cruel and saying I didn't want you in my life." But my pride was the hardest part to swallow, and I was still trying to find more ways to not actually say the words "I'm sorry."

I had seen him around the gala. He was handsome—more than I remembered. His hair was neatly slicked back, but not disgustingly so. There was that smirk: it wasn't a cocky smirk. Something about the way he grinned was not how I remembered _it_, either. It was as if he was putting on a show. There was a veil there, covering something up, and I was the only one who could see past it. Everyone else just laughed and grinned right along with him.

A distinct feeling crept up in me as I watched him. He was scoping the room, looking for me. At least, I thought he was looking for me. It could, very well, have been someone else: perhaps another petite ingénue that was specifically brought to the fundraiser so she could be strapped to Bruce's side, but had wandered off. The story I had come up with in my head about the ingénue sounded legit until Bruce's wandering eyes landed on me.

The smirk returned. I was beginning to think it wasn't a smirk at all. The word "smirk" carries with it negative connotations, like other words—arrogant and conceited. Tonight, Bruce wasn't cocky. He wasn't rude or sarcastic (not as far as I could tell). He was…human. And he was handsome.

He was standing on a higher level than I was. A few steps led up to the landing. One hand was in his pocket as he slowly marched his way down the stairs, not taking his eyes off of mine. He finally reached the floor and was mere feet away from me. Still staring. Still grinning.

I had to say something—what, I didn't know. It was too awkward and too…unnerving. "H—Hi." Great. I stuttered.

"Hey," he responded, just as cool as ever.

"How are you?"

"Better now." _Don't do that, Bruce. Just don't!_ When those words came out of his mouth, I felt as guilty as ever for what I had done to him.

"You, uh…you look great."

"Thanks…you do, too. But, at the same time, you look pretty miserable." Was I that easy to read? "How are you feeling?" He took another step forward.

"The recovery went well." I clutched my handbag, feeling my heart skip a beat. Was he always this intense? "I'm still having trouble with mobility in my shoulder, but it's getting better."

"At least it's progress, right?"

"Right." Silence. He took another step closer.

"How's that case of yours going?"

"It's not." Bruce narrowed his eyes questioningly. "The trail just…died. My work as a private investigator is now, officially, over."

"You can't be serious." To hear him say that was a little shocking.

"What do you mean?"

"You were so passionate about it."

"I think my passion slowly turned into obsession. I scared off the few people in my life that truly cared about me. If you didn't know, that number is very tiny." I had a feeling he knew that he was included in that number.

"What about justice?"

"Some people never get justice. Batman can't save everyone."

"Don't you understand?" Another step closer. The gap between us was only about two or three feet. "Haven't you figured it out already? Batman is just a symbol. He takes it to the extreme, yes, but this is what we all should be doing. No one, including you, should stand by and let injustice take over."

"Right," I scoffed. "Are you included in this?"

"Of course, I am."

"Then what are _you _doing? How are you bringing justice to vigilantes? You throw giant fundraisers, Bruce, for mayors who are rich. You donate money to charities that keep most of the proceeds for themselves." I took a breath, gaining back the control that I had just momentarily lost. His expression didn't change—we were nearly a foot apart now. "I didn't come here to insult you. But you have to understand: in this world, in this city, _no one _wins…especially those who fight for justice. There is no justice."

"That's sad, Helena. You've given up, and you know what? The Joker won. He's won by convincing you that the good guys never win. But they do. _You _can win. You just gave up too soon."

I closed my eyes, the truth pounding me like a fist. I did give up. "I can't expect you to understand, Bruce." My voice was barely above a whisper, but somehow I think he heard me. The noise of the party slowly dissipated in the background. I could no longer hear it. I had a feeling he couldn't, either. "He found me, and I knew he would. But…it didn't register with me until some time later, in the hospital, that he could find anyone. He could find Ricky. He could find my cousin, Marcello. He…he could find you. Don't you see, Bruce? I had to stop—not because I wanted to. But because I had to." Opening my eyes, I could see that he was closer. I could feel his breath tickling my cheek.

"Helena—"

"Wait, please. I…I need to get this out. This is my reason for coming here tonight. I…" my mouth went dry. "I'm sorry for what I said to you before. I never meant any of it. It was just the heat of the moment, you know?"

"That was three months ago."

"I know. But guilt lasts a long time."

"Well, in that case," he placed his warm, calloused hand on my shoulder. I wondered what he did to make his hands so rough. "I'm sorry, too. I won't delve in to your personal life anymore."

When his hand touched my arm, I melted. I wanted to tell him everything, from the Gotham City Mafia, to my crook of a father; my inheritance to my training sessions with Sal. "I have a better idea."

"What's that?"

"How about a give-take relationship? You share with me, and I share with you."

"I can't tell you everything, Helena."

"Same here, but it's a start, at least. Don't you agree?"

And there it was again: the grin.


	17. Fighter

A/N: Hey guys, I just want to apologize for not updating this like I should. I've recently been diagnosed with an eye disease that has left me partially blind in my right eye. Weird, right? I just woke up and couldn't see! I've been dealing with that, and so far, I'm doing much better. So I figured it was time to update my story again. Hope everyone is doing well. Thanks for the reviews and for having faith in me that I would return!

I don't particularly like this chapter, but I had to find a way to get over this huge gap in plot that has been bothering me lately. So, try to enjoy it!

* * *

Chapter Seventeen

**Fighter**

_7:00 p.m._

Sal was perhaps, one of the most interesting people I had ever met. He was a marine for the majority of his life. During the many years he served the country, Sal was a semi-professional kickboxer. He now uses that as a cover—a cover for what, I don't know. Perhaps for his training facility. He helped men and women alike become killing machines.

It was during these past few months that I came to a conclusion. Sal was made to fight. A bullet to the chest couldn't knock him down. Anytime he moved or spoke, it was like watching a Clint Eastwood movie. I never expect to see Clint Eastwood get hurt, but I do expect him to kick some ass. But beneath that tough exterior, something else lingered. Sal was a defender of the weak. He was a caring individual. And he cared about me.

"Sal," I finally spoke up. I was seated on a bench, putting back on my tennis shoes. A reoccurring thought had been troubling me, and Sal wasn't all brawns. He could help me out. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course." He sipped from his water bottle.

"I've been coming here…what, four months?"

"Yeah, I think that's about right."

"Do you think I'm a good fighter?"

He sat down on the floor, sticking his legs straight out and grabbing his feet to stretch. Sal also proved to be quite flexible. "Helena, you're an excellent fighter. You were meant to be one."

That took my by surprise. "Sal, I'm just a writer."

"Some people are meant to conquer a lot of things. From what I know about you and what I can tell, you can't sit still."

"Well, I am right now."

"I mean, you don't like being in one place for too long. You're a lot like me when I was a kid. That's why I joined the marines: traveled the world and did new things every chance I got. You're just like that, aren't you?"

"Sorta like everything's an adventure, right? I love to travel. Always have." I stood. He did as well.

"I can read people pretty well, you know?" He put his hand on my shoulder. It was very…fatherly. "I don't get sentimental. I want you to remember that. But you have this vibe about you, Helena. You don't like people getting in your business, knowing anything about you…or getting too close."

"I like my privacy." Those darn eyes of his. He was staring into mine, like he could see right through me.

"You're determined. Most people train so they're not victims anymore."

"Isn't that what I'm doing?"

"No. It's almost as if you are setting out to do something."

"Yeah, but what? What exactly am I doing here? Why am I training? What purpose is there to it? Four months and no sign of the Joker. Why continue?"

Sal didn't respond immediately. He was studying me. Those piercing eyes were delving right into mine, trying to figure me out. He was contemplating something, and before too long, his decision had been made. "Come with me." He stood and moved to a door in the back of the facility. "Come on!" Sal shouted when I still hadn't moved. I followed him to the steel door, which then led to an eerie staircase. Sal trekked his way up the stairs and I found myself hesitating. This looked like something out of a SAW movie.

"Where are we going?"

Sal had already entered into another room, one floor up. Swallowing any of the doubting feelings I had, I marched up the stairs into the room.

"What's going on, Sal? I'm serious." The room was dimly lit and Sal was sitting behind a desk. It looked like an office. There were stacks of papers encompassing the room.

"I know I printed this off somewhere…" Sal searched for one piece of paper in the midst of thousands. A few moments passed and he found it. "Organized chaos, you see? I can find anything in this mess." He handed me the paper and I could see a huge coffee stain on it.

It was a print out of an order—one that hadn't been purchased yet. "I don't understand."

"Keep reading. This took a ton of research."

I did as he said and continued to skim through the page. It was from Wayne Enterprises. Wait—what?

"Wayne Enterprises?" I questioned. The order was for a newly designed material, not unlike Kevlar. Only this material protected _against_ armor piercing rounds. "What is this?"

"New stuff from Wayne Enterprises. They're developing an advanced form of Kevlar. But as you can see, this material goes the extra mile. It conforms to body shapes and contours with an electrical current. It's something not necessarily seen by the general public."

"It looks like it was designed for the military."

"Or those who could afford it. Did you see the price?" I hadn't. My eyes browsed over the page once again. When I saw the cost, my stomach dropped.

"300 thousand dollars?! For a few yards of material! Who the hell could afford that?!"

It took him a few moments to respond. But, when he did, he spoke softly and convincingly. "You could."

"What are you talking about, Sal?"

"Helena, don't play dumb with me. You're a Bertinelli. Guido? Your father? He was one of the biggest crime bosses in the city before he died. He owed people money, yeah, but from what I hear, your dad was a tightwad. Guido had the money. He just never paid up. Am I right?"

He had me there. "So?"

"So…I'm saying, where did the money go, Helena?"

"What does it matter? You want me to buy this…this, ultra-Kevlar or something?"

Sal stood, his frustration finally getting the better of him. I honestly had no idea what he was thinking. Had he completely lost his mind? "All I'm saying is that you could buy it."

"Yeah. I could buy it. But why? I don't plan on running in front of armor piercing rounds anytime soon. I'm not a fighter."

"Then why have you been coming to my facility almost every single day for the past four months?"

Another good point. "I'm learning self-defense."

He scoffed. "Bullshit, Helena. You knew self-defense before you stepped foot in this place. You came here to train. Train for what? I don't know."

Sal meant business. I had no clue what he had up his sleeve. Whatever it was, he was completely serious. In a hypothetical situation, if I were to purchase the "ultra-Kevlar", what would I do with it? I wouldn't just purchase it willy-nilly. I'd use it. But for what? Was I supposed to make a suit out of it? Did Sal expect me to prance around town, looking for the Joker and members of the Gotham City Mafia? Who did he think I was?

Then it hit me.

"You want me to be like Batman!"

His eyes grew wide and then he laughed. "No, no, no, no, no! I want you to be like Helena Bertinelli. Batman is just…I don't know. He's something."

"Have you not heard of all these reports of people getting arrested and thrown into hospitals and…killed, even—these Batman impersonators?"

"You wouldn't be like those people. They dream of being heroes, of having the spotlight. That's the least of your concerns, isn't it?"

There was a spare chair in Sal's office. Unfortunately, there was another stack of papers sitting it. Not caring if I screwed with his "organized chaos", I moved the papers and plopped down in the seat, weary with defeat. "I don't understand where all this is coming from." Sal leaned against his desk and sighed.

"I don't know, kid. I just figured if anybody could do it, you could."

"Batman can do it."

"Yeah, and when was the last time you saw him?" Another valid point. So far it was Sal: 3, Helena: 0.

"I don't want to be somebody's hero, okay? I just want revenge. I want revenge for what was done to my family and what was done to me. I want the GCM to burn. Batman said he'd help me with at least that."

"Batman isn't in the revenge business. He's in it for justice." My eyes connected with his. They were sincere. "And if that's the case, Helena, you've already set yourself apart from Batman. You won't be anything like him."

Standing, I rubbed my hands together nervously. My palms were sweating. "I want some time to think about this."

"Your decision—not mine. Just know that I'll help you out either way."

"Thanks, Sal." I moved toward the door. "300 thousand dollars? Really?"

"Yeah. Unless you don't think you need a suit."

"I don't even know what the suit is for."

"An identity. A new one."

I was starting toward his door once again when another thought crossed my mind. I turned back to look at Sal. Hope flashed in his eyes. "Do they do background checks to purchase this stuff?"

"More than likely."

"I can't purchase it."

He stood. "What do you mean?"

"Bruce Wayne. He'll start asking questions."

"We would have to find somebody else to do the transaction."

The list of people I had come up with in a few short seconds was miniscule. "Well, there's you…"

"No can do. I have a record." That took me for surprise. What kind of record did Sal have?

"There's my cousin, Marcello. He lives in Italy. I can wire him the money, let him purchase the material, and he could ship it to me."

Sal scratched his head. "It could work."

"They wouldn't be able to connect the dots?"

"No, I don't think they'd look _that _far into it. Especially if he's in Italy."

"All right. I'll send him an email once I get home to confirm." I sighed, leaving the room. I shouted behind me, "Sal, you're crazy. You know that, right?"

"This is news?" He laughed. "Take care. See you tomorrow."

* * *

**Marcello,**

**I know I haven't spoken with you in a while. I'm sorry. Things have been quite hectic over in Gotham. How are you? I hope everything is going well for you and your family.**

**Marc, I'm going to sound crazy. I know I am. But there is a huge favor I must ask of you. I'm taking out numerous Certificates of Deposits prematurely. After I do that, I'm going to wire you the money. Attached is a file of things I need purchased. You'll note that they are from Wayne Enterprises, which is located here in Gotham. I can't purchase them, as they do background checks. It'll be too suspicious, especially since I know the CEO, Bruce Wayne. I can't have people asking questions…including you, Marc. I know it's not fair to put you in this compromising position without any additional information, but I do need your help. Just note that I'm not in any trouble.**

**I know you worry about me. But don't. Not this time. For once, everything is under my control. I'm taking power over something. I'm going to make a difference. But I need your help.**

**Love always,**

**Helena**

**

* * *

**

A/N: Short with lots of dialogue, eh? I'll try to make it better for next time. Have a good night everyone and please review!!


End file.
